Chapter 112

The Perfect Dress For Murder

Directly in front of me are an elven couple clad in stupendous ball gowns. Arms draped around each other, they have clearly started celebrating early. It is difficult not to stare at their pointed ears, or their clothes, but they seem oblivious so I have a good look at both.

The first is a vision in violet and moss, a girdle of flowers cinched about her waist, hair an auburn tumble over left shoulder. Her gown is cut low at the back, to leave room for her cream coloured butterfly wings. The mask covering the upper part of her face is delicate porcelain, and decorated with blossoms and leaves that compliment the shade of her attire.

Her date is wingless, but with a ball gown that takes my breath away (metaphorically speaking, of course). Full, wide, black skirts, with a shining silken net layered over the top in gossamer threads as fragile as a spider’s web. The bodice is accentuated with tiny crystals like suspended drops of dew.

I cannot help it. I am overcome, and tap her on the shoulder.

“Excuse me,” I say. “Can you tell me the name of your seamstress?”

The pair’s laughter falters. The elven couple briefly disentangle, and confusion reigns as they look for me everywhere but where I actually stand. They reek of wine and frivolity.

“Down here,” I say.

Spidersilk jumps. Violet and Moss shrieks, clutching her date dramatically.

“The servant’s entrance is around the side,” says Spidersilk, words slurring with wine and disdain, “in the forest.”

“Are you a sacrifice?” asks Violet and Moss.

They both turn away, giggling. Before I can respond the ogre admits them to the party, and they pass through the black thorns to the brightly lit meadow beyond.

I move forward to follow them in, but the ogre holds out one large, green, meaty hand. I am forced to stop or run into it.

“No,” he says, his voice rumbling and deep. It is so deep I can hear it in my toes.

“No, what?” I say, peevishly.

“No mask,” he points to my naked face. “No mask. No come in.”

He crosses his arms over his enormous chest and nods his head, presumably satisfied in a job well done.

“Fine,” I say, and turn on my heel, pushing my way through the queue of gentry.

Alright, I need a mask. I can make a mask. Easy.

Stamping into the forest I root around in my pack. I still have a couple of bunches of ghost flowers, I always have plenty of thread, and some scraps of silk. All I need is something to make a frame. There are plenty of twigs around, and at the very bottom of my pack are a few random bones, and some leftover bits of nixie as well, that I thought might be interesting. Unfortunately the nixie bits are still covered in, well nixie, but they will add a certain fleshy something to my party attire. The final result is a bit rustic, but the ghost dahlias are lovely.

The two curse frogs watch me, silently judging.

“There,” I say, tying it onto my face with a bit of ribbon. If only I had a mirror. “What do you think?”

The frogs don’t say anything.

Whatever.

I flounce back to the ogre, join the queue once more and wait with utter, completely non-rage filled patience to show my freshly masked face.

The brute in charge looks at it carefully.

“No,” he says.

“What? Why? I have a mask!” I point to it, just in case he needs the help.

“No,” he says. “No party clothes. No good. No come in.”

I look down at my skirt and blouse. My skirts are beautiful, but I cannot deny they are a little muddy and travel stained, especially after wrestling with the nixies in the bog. But a new gown will be easily found. Whisperer knows, there are fine dresses everywhere. An evil grin spreads across my face.

“Fine,” I say to the ogre. “Fine!”

I retreat to the shadows beneath the enormous forest trees, and watch as more revellers arrive.

Leaping out at a strategic moment I grab a faun by the arm, whispering frantically into her surprised floppy, lamb ear. “You! Yes, you! Are you listening? Will you do me a favour? Go get the elf with the spidersilk dress and tell her there is an important message waiting for her outside the entrance. Important! She can’t miss it! Really, really important! Got it? Do this and your life will be blessed with… more life!”

The faun spins around, eyes wild, and for a moment I think she is going to scream. Or run. “I would really appreciate it,” I say, politely.

She trots off, obediently. Excellent.

I lurk awkwardly beneath the giant bough like an uninvited party guest, which is exactly what I am. If the faun does not deliver the message, I will send one of the curse frogs after her. Which would be a waste, because I am growing quite fond of them.

Five minutes later the elf in the magnificent spider silk gown emerges from the gap in the thorns. She wanders out into the road, and stands swaying, looking around her in confusion.

“Hello?” she calls.

It is the work of moments to drag her into the darkness, one hand clamped across her mouth. No one notices. They are all too busy having fun and looking fabulous.

I waver briefly.

Leaving the elf naked in a forest full of predators seems somehow worse than killing her outright. Besides, I am leery of stealing the soul of an innocent on someone else’s turf (technically an innocent, obnoxious personality aside). Clearly I am going soft. I could knock her out? Simple, but then, I also know from experience that hitting people in the head often damages them permanently.

In the end I punch her in the head anyway, because a lich can only contemplate morality for so long. But I do it as carefully as I can, before speedily divesting her of her raiments.

As a compromise, I leave the elf slumped against a tree wearing my blouse and petticoats (but not the pink and green embroidered skirt). She is already stirring so I need to make haste. Her gown is too long for me, and annoyingly loose in the bust, but with a couple of stitches it is serviceable, if no one looks too closely. And the gleaming spidersilk is gorgeous.

“Thank you,” I say to the groaning figure.

I trip through the forest, twirling and dancing, to arrive with a sparkling flourish in front of the ogre one final time.

“Hello,” I say to him, with a smile almost as dazzling as my dress. “Behold. Mask. Gown. Me!”

The brute surveys me, a little frown creasing his massive, green brow.

I can already tell he is going to say no before he opens his big ugly mouth.

“WHAT IS IT NOW?” I snap.

The ogre gulps.

“No undead.”

“You asked for a mask,” I say, dangerously pleasant. “I got a mask. You asked for fine clothes. Here they are, as fine as can be. Now you listen closely, and you listen well. Let me into that meadow right this instant or I will rip your spine out through your nostrils and use it to floss my teeth. Do you understand?”

The ogre picks up his book, holding it like a shield before him, jamming a finger against the page. “No undead,” he repeats. A bead of sweat has started on his brow. Behind me a pair of beautifully dressed gentlemen are gasping into their handkerchiefs.

My eyes focus on the parchment. There it is, written in a flowing hand, plain as day, sandwiched between ‘no weapons’, ‘no harpies’ and ‘no silly hats’ is ‘no undead’.

I’m not even angry any more.

I have transcended anger.

I just want to get the blasted dandelion and leave. If I have to declare war on the whole of the fairy realm, starting with this ogre to do so, so be it.

Cracking my knuckles, I advance with meaningful footsteps. So help me, Whisperer, I will climb the brute like a ladder and poke his eyes out with my thumbs, before shredding the rest of him into tiny pieces with my bare fingers and feeding the remains to whoever is foolish enough to still be around when I am done. A growl gathers in my throat.

I bunch my muscles to spring—and feel a soft tug on my skirt.

Looking down as I see a mushroom-faced sprite wearing an exceptionally beautiful cardigan in woad-blue.

“What is it?”

“Follow me!” squeaks the mushroom person, gesturing wildly. “This way! This way!”

I look up at the ogre, who is cowering behind his podium. For the moment his soul hangs in the balance.

Bah.

“I won’t forget this,” I say to him with icy calm.

Swishing my skirts I stalk after the sprite.

They lead me down the side of the thorn hedge, around past the arriving lines of fairies and elves, and into the forest on the other side of the road. For five minutes we walk deep into the woods, along the wall of thorns until at long last we reach another entrance.

Up ahead I can see many more of the fae folk. None of them are finely dressed, and most of them are small. They are all wearing tiny white aprons and carrying little trays that are being unpacked from an enormous acorn carriage. I peak beneath a cloth. It is full of crawling bugs, centipedes, beetles, and not a few worms. I cover it back up thoughtfully, as the mushroom-sprite tugs once more on my skirt and hands me a white cloth.

“Thank you,” I say, awkwardly unfolding the apron and tying it around my waist.

It looks beyond ridiculous on top of the glittering finery. Apparently this doesn’t matter. I approach the entrance, and another ogre, twin to the first, waves me through without a second glance.

Just like that, I am standing in the summer queen’s field.

“I am much obliged,” I say to the little mushroom-sprite. It grins at me, bobs a curtsey and then rushes off, presumably to attend to its duties, whatever those are.

Wisps and fireflies hang everywhere, illuminating the revels in gentle twilight. Beautifully dressed guests are everywhere, all of them wearing elaborate masks. Hastily, I tie mine back on and look around. Goblets clink, a tinkling backdrop to the swell of music. A full orchestra is performing from under a heavily scented magnolia tree. In the very centre of the meadow fairies are dancing. There are a lot of ribbons involved, and half of the swaying couples are airborne.

But I am not here to gawk at fairies, I am here to find those damnable dandelions. Moving swiftly, I thread my way through the revellers casting my eyes here and there. In my innocence, I start off by looking for little yellow puff flowers at my feet. No such luck. There are flowers aplenty; meadow daisies, lady’s bedstraw, blushes of scarlet poppies and sweet buttercups abound. But no dandelions.

“Excuse me,” I say, peevishly, as some rakish elf grabs my waist and tries to waltz me towards the dancing. “I’m trying to find the dandelions!”

“For shame!” laughs the elf. “You are looking in the wrong place!”

“Clearly.” I grab the foolish young man by the throat and pull him close. Strangely he misinterprets this act of aggression and I find my vision suddenly full of puckered lips. “Where?” I snarl, shaking him.

“Guarding the queen, of course,” he laughs.

I growl in his face, but he merely shrugs, and dances away.

Cursing under my breath, I sneak closer to the silver castle. Up till now I have avoided the summer queen for obvious reasons.

There she is. Surrounded by sycophants and fluttering fae, and holding court on a throne of roses. The summer queen is clearly visible, even from a distance. There she is, and there they are. My quarry. Seated on either side of the horrible monarch are majestic green sentinels the size of horses. Magnificent manes in lurid yellow and puff ball tails make them unmistakable. There are the dandelions the Whisperer sent me to ‘pluck’.

How in his name am I going to do this?