The room that stretched out in front of the Comte de Rochefort was illuminated with such a vibrant blue, that he wondered if he had been drowned.
Do I now haunt Poseidon's palace?
But the withered tree in the centre of the room, branches spindly, leafless and bark a scorched black shade, made him think otherwise. The roots clawed their way across the polished floor, forming a perfect circle around the trunk. The path that had led him to such a strange and mystical place had also been surrounded by a dead forest. A rotting expanse of trees shaped like doomed ships and flowers shaped like sailor's skulls.
I have never seen a tree at the bottom of a Spanish bucket, he cursed.
His lungs burnt at the memory of being held under the water.
The sound of an orchestra tuning their instruments echoed around the ornate hall. The tuneful screech of the violin. The double bass clearing its throat with shuddering staccato. The metallic blare of the brass, a French horn and a tuba. The gentle lullaby of harp being plucked.
The flipping of sheet music pages.
The tapping of a conductor's baton.
But not a musician in sight.
Perhaps I have finally become mad, broken by blue-eyed man's tortures, Rochefort questioned, slowly limping further into the ballroom, certain that he had been sleeping in his dark prison cell only moments ago.
He remembered the rain had been running in through the window.
A puddle had formed at his feet.
His eyes suspiciously darted around, seeing no one but his own skeletal reflection, staring back at him seemingly from every surface.
He was entirely alone.
But, still…
Something in the back of his mind told him he was being watched.
He had lurked unseen his entire life. Hiding from his father. From the woman he had almost been forced to marry. From the nobles and generals he had spied on. From the adversaries who sought to kill him.
He was an expert on being shrouded in shadows.
And one who has spent his life watching others always knows the violating caress of another man's stare.
I must prepare.
He noticed an enormous fireplace upon one of the walls, branches creeping over an anonymous coat of arms hung above it. Two swords were protruding from the silver shield, which bore an engraved raven. Even in the dim candlelight, he could tell they were not simply decorative.
He began to dart over to them, as quickly as a half-starved man could.
If I am, in fact, under someone's gaze, and my observer is no potential ally, no fool to be tricked and no man to be seduced with promise of reward, then I must arm myself, he plotted quickly. He tried to ignore the creaking from his brittle bones and prominent ribs, and the pain from his wasted away legs. He had not moved in this manner for so long.
Softly, music began to play. (*)
Upon reaching the fireplace, the hearth appeared to have recently lit.
Ash coated his bare feet.
The bitter smell of smoke filled his nose.
He reached for the sword's hilt.
"I wondered if you would notice me. How marvellous that you did. And so swiftly too!"
Rochefort span around to face the fantastical voice, and was met by a man who looked as though he had stepped from the pages of a book. His hair was silver and swept back in a high fashion, making him appear taller than he truly was. His face was pale and ghostly, eyes tainted with a maniacal glee, framed by flourishing eyebrows, and just as blue as the Comte's own. He was dressed in garments, unlike any that Rochefort had ever seen, silver and elaborately embroidered, with a ruffled shirt and tailored waistcoat and jacket.
Rochefort thought he looked ridiculous.
"I assure you that the sword you so desperately wish to wield will be of no use to you. I cannot simply be stabbed, to bleed like mortal men."
A door had seemingly appeared from nowhere in the nearest wall, and Rochefort watched as graceful figures waltzed out onto the dancefloor, each robed in white, hair piled on their heads and laced with cobwebs. They looked like antique dolls, china faces and perfect ringlets, left forgotten in an attic. They paid him no attention, instead spinning and twirling to the music, with no signs of stopping. It was an oddly joyful tune. Full of anguish and sorrow, but revelling in them.
"And why, Rochefort, should you want to kill me…"
He opened his arms and gestured to the room.
To the dancers.
To the tree.
To the clouded mirrors on the walls.
"…When I can offer you all that you desire?"
Confusion clouded the Comte's mind. Who was this man, who spoke such perfect French in an unmistakable English accent, to make that claim? And who were these mindless puppets, who danced like courtiers but were expressionless as paper?
He was infuriated at his inability to comprehend.
"I am mad…" He murmured.
The Gentleman laughed.
"You were already mad, Rochefort. I show myself only to the blissfully insane. Consider this meeting an honour in the highest sense of the word!"
Rochefort's hand still twitched towards the mounted sword. He turned his head to look up at them, aware that it was not subtle. He wanted to show this whimsical fool that he would not be easily threatened. Easily tricked.
No man cannot bleed, he affirmed silently.
Looking back at the fey figure, he found himself face to face with him. The Gentleman's long fingernails brushed over his unshaven face. He was cold to the touch.
"I rather resent, Rochefort, the fact that you have not made yourself presentable for my ball. Upon our next engagement, I hope to see you rather more respectably turned out."
Rochefort opened his mouth to respond, but was silenced by a pale hand clamping over his mouth. The fairy lent over and stared deeply into his eyes.
"Now, about your wish…" he whispered, "Tell me what you desire."
The Frenchman pulled his head away in disgust.
"You have nothing I want." He spat, voice hoarse from dehydration, glaring back at him.
The dancers almost seemed to pass through him, breezing by without a single hair brushing against his skin.
"I do not even know your name. Why should you be of use to me?"
The Gentleman extended his arms once more, smiling.
"Do you see nothing you like?"
Rochefort snarled.
"Do you think I desire the sight of a decaying tree? Or the ability to face my own reflection? I see far too much death in my pitiful cell… and the sight of my own face will do nothing but make me wish myself dead."
He had to move to lean against the wall, frail from his tormented existence, exhaustion overwhelming him.
"No, what I wish cannot be given by you, whoever you are. Not even God could satisfy my thirst."
The Gentleman-with-the-Thistledown-Hair watched him, amused.
"Why have you brought me here?"
The Gentleman took a few paces away him, footsteps silent.
"I have been watching you, Rochefort, in my boredom. English magic has all but faded into obscurity with the disappearance of the Raven King. Those who are left to remember John Uskglass simply read about him in books and pretend that they are magicians. And so I have turned my gaze upon foreign lands. To the French cathedrals and Italian canals. To the Irish cemeteries and Spanish prisons. In search of magicians. In search of companions."
He paused and his eyes widened wondrously.
"In search of kings."
Rochefort frowned and set his jaw in his usual expression of contempt.
"Do not mock me, monsieur. Magic is fiction, lies told to naïve children. Do you think me a fool?"
"I think you a king without a queen." A mischievous smile passed over the Gentleman's face and Rochefort felt horror paint itself upon his face.
How did he know…?
Suddenly, a slender hand closed around his arm and he found himself dragged into the dance by a woman, face half veiled with lace, like a lunar eclipse. As he stumbled along with her, he saw that it was not lace, but dewy cobwebs that had been spun like sugar across her eyes. Blonde hair tumbled over her shoulders. Her lips were full and tinged with blue.
"Is she not ravishing?"
Rochefort's head was beginning to spin.
He felt sick.
The music was getting faster.
"She is perfectly suitable material for a queen, do you not think?"
The Gentleman's voice seemed disembodied, as though he was perched inside Rochefort's ear, invisible to all.
"You disagree? You believe another to be superior in beauty? How rude."
In 4:4 time they crossed the floor, moving as though the soles of their shoes were trying to paint a portrait on the marble below them.
"Well what would you say, Rochefort, if I had the power to give you your chosen Queen?"
Rochefort felt the wounds on his feet reopen, skin tearing.
He screwed his eyes up with the pain.
"You…you could do that…?" he whispered through gritted teeth.
"I can do anything you wish…" The Gentleman murmured.
The words were like cold breath on his cheeks.
"But magic is not real…"
"And yet here you are, dancing in Lost-Hope, the world beyond the mirror, to the skilful playing of an invisible orchestra."
For once in his life, Rochefort had no counter-argument. He could not deny that his surroundings were bizarre…too bizarre to be anything but…magical.
He scoffed a little, knowingly.
I have dealt with your kind before, silver haired trickster.
"You will ask for something in return, no doubt?"
He opened his eyes, becoming accustomed to the agony in his feet, and the woman he was dancing with had vanished. Instead, the Gentleman had a firm hand around his waist and was leading the fluid movement.
"Of course."
Rochefort felt a lump in his throat.
He loathed this figure.
But his offer was so intriguing…so tempting.
What harm could this flamboyant buffoon cause me?
"And… what must I give you… to gain Anne's love?"
The Gentleman smirked triumphantly.
"Half of your remaining life."
Rochefort felt a shudder pass down his back.
The music got faster still.
They did not stop dancing.
The Gentleman looked falsely surprised.
"Do you not love her enough that you would give anything…?"
"How many years must I give to you?" Rochefort hissed, now with a sinking feeling that he would regret bargaining with this sinister figure.
Death petrified him.
But a life without Anne was worthless.
And he would do anything to win her.
"Not years, my dear Comte."
Rochefort inclined his head questioningly and was suddenly flung to the floor. He went skidding across the polished surface, his bloodied feet leaving a trail behind him, and smashed his head on a full length mirror, with a gilded frame. His skull felt as though it was pounding against his brain. As he pulled himself up onto his feet again, trembling with concussion, the Gentleman appeared beside him.
The claw-like fingernails pointed at their reflections.
"Simply your dreams."
A bell rang in the distance.
Rochefort knew it was the prison chapel's bell, ringing as the sun rose. He wondered how he would return to the stifling reality of Spain, when there was no carriage to take him across the floating roads he had seen, and no ship in this land that had not sunk and decayed.
"When you sleep, you will attend my dance. That is all I require."
His heart hurt with longing for Anne's touch.
"Will you accept my proposal?"
The thought of the Queen's youthful face gave him no doubt.
I would never sleep again, if it meant that she would desire me with her body and soul, he swore.
If it meant she would be mine.
"…I accept."
The Gentleman's face lit up with elation. His hand moved to the Comte's exposed chest and the pressure he put upon it grew stronger and stronger, until Rochefort wondered if he would squeeze out every breath from his damaged lungs.
"Listen closely to my instructions."
Rochefort resented the prospect of following orders once more, of once again having to bow and scrape to another man, but stayed silent.
It will be worth it in the end.
"I will make the Spanish give you an opportunity to spy for them. Accept it. Return to France with news of vital importance for the false King. Poison his mind against the Queen. Poison him."
He took Rochefort's face in his hands.
Rochefort felt a wave of weariness wash over him.
Am I falling asleep…?
Or waking up…?
"Make her lonelier than you have ever been."
The Gentleman covered his new prey's eyes with his forefingers.
"She will love you."
Rochefort fell towards the mirror, asleep once again.
"And you shall be a King."
He passed through it and was gone.
The Gentleman-with-the-Thistledown-Hair now stood alone by the mirror.
The dancers had retired for the evening. Dawn was approaching, the sun's orange glow basking across dreamers in bedrooms across the continent. The veiled woman who had danced with the newly indoctrinated Comte approached quietly. Gently, the silver haired faerie took her hand and kissed it. She did not react.
"That exquisite crucifix you wear…"
He tenderly peeled back the cobwebs to reveal her eyes, shining with regal beauty. Eyes which would remember nothing of the dance and merely an echo of the faerie.
"…the one he gave to you…"
The young woman stared blankly at the mirror.
"Wouldn't it be fun if you gave it to that dashing Musketeer?"