“Pet,” said their father.
“Yes dear?” answered their mother while staring into the vanity mirror and adjusting her tiara.
“I can't help thinking we've done wrong by the daughters three.”
“Whatever could you mean, done wrong?”
They were dressing for dinner, which the Pemberton-Pemberton’s insisted be formal. Their father worked a finger into his ill-fitting borrowed collar and mumbled, “Damned snow.” He continued, “Well the Duchess, do we know her?”
“She's only a Lady, Lady Euella Horsley, but she does rate a column and a half in Debretts.”
“Yes, well…ink, ink on paper but what if she's a monster in real life? A real-life monster, what of that?”
“Oh darling, we’d have heard something in the village. There are no Bluebeards in our neck of the woods, just tweeds and tea types. I'm told she is very nice, puts on fetes for the locals, does good deeds, that kind of thing. I’ve even heard it said that she enjoys cricket, and it was very nice of her to call us about the daughters’ weekend plans.”
“Harrumph,” said their father, worriedly dropping himself into a chair.
Their mother pursed her now-lovely shade of crimson lips and said, “Dear, let's make the best of it.” She brushed her hands with a sense of accomplishment. “My face is done.”
Their father cocked his bushy eyebrows and thought, I really do love her, but said, “What do you think dinner’ll be? Nothing too bloody I hope.”
Their mother wagged her fan at him and said, “Oh my love, you worry far too much,” then switched off the lamp.
“Now girls,” said Lady Horsley, pushing back a strand of gray hair and turning to the huge wooden trunk she was rummaging through. “There must be something here. If you are to be our nymphs, our forest pixies, you must look the part. We are having baked jam roll for dinner and you can't expect this lot to suspend their disbelief so easily after baked jam roll.” She smiled. The girls sat on the bed, enveloped in the lovely smothering warmth of the house and its contents; it felt like being in the middle of a warm, overstuffed cabinet of curiosities.
“Ah,” Lady H shouted, “this is exactly what I was looking for.” She held three crinoline dresses, dripping glistening silver and blue gossamer. “You shall be pixies with a vengeance!”
The girls looked at each other. Sarah said, “I'm not sure if we are the pixie type,” hesitantly.
“Nonsense,” said Lady H, stretching up with a crackle. “I thought ‘pixie material’ from the moment I saw you. Besides, we need three pixies, it’s in the play and I certainly cannot be a pixie. Why my bottom shook its last pixie dance years ago. So I’m afraid it’s typecasting my dears — three sisters, three pixies. I am sorry. Next year, I promise we'll do Beckett but for now it’s fairy queens and pixies. Entre nous, by the time we get to this point in the evening our guests (bless them) will be quite soused and it will all seem Waiting for bloody Godot to them anyways.” She held the dresses towards the girls. “Try them on. If we need to make adjustments we best get to it now.”
Mr. Rutherford sat alone in the enormous study enjoying a wonderful silence the weekend had not yet afforded him. He had not turned on the light and was holding a drained martini glass, wondering whether he should have another while already knowing the answer. The snow was still falling. How long will it keep up? he thought. How long could they hold out? Robert lay behind his head, a furry extension of the marvelously ornate and comfortable chair. He was snoring slightly, his ears twitching and paws opening and closing. Although the fire had been laid out for the morning, Mr. R had lit it and it was beginning to take. Such a drafty old house, he thought, certainly full of ghosts. The room shifted orange and yellow, the windows dark rectangles of blue. The mantle clock struck the half.
He got up with a “hep” sound and chuffed across the room to the drinks’ tray. Grasping the ice-cold silver shaker, he shook it heartily to ‘awaken the gin’ then poured the liquid into his glass. Adding another olive he then returned to the chair. Robert was stretching and scrunching into a Halloween cat pose. Mr. R scratched the cat’s chin and said, “Old thing,” then sat down and crossed his long legs, feeling absolutely delicious. He sipped. “Ah,” he said, “now Robert, with so much in motion we must keep our wits.” Robert yawned. “With the enterprise you and I are planning, we must keep our wits.” To emphasize, Mr. R tapped the arm of the chair three times. Robert, in response, fell asleep.
The girls looked in the mirror, Alice pulling the fabric with her fingers. “These are practically transparent.”
“Well, you are pixie-fairy-dust-darlings; if you're going to fly you must be as light as air,” said Lady H, stepping back and pushing a strand of hair behind her ears. “Now come away from the screen and let’s have a look at you.”
The girls hesitantly stepped out from behind the dressing screen. Lady H clapped her hands delightedly, “Exactly so, exactly so.” She walked over to Elizabeth and taking her shoulder turned to have a look at her. “They fit as if they were made for you. Now, one last thing...” she went over to the trunk. “Wings, you must have wings. They must be … somewhere. Ah ha!” she shouted and pulled out three sets of gorgeous white wings made with real feathers pricked with tiny drops of silver beads. “Of course they're just show, stage props, we would not expect you to use these flimsy things to fly.”
“You speak as if we’re actually going to fly,” said Sarah.
“But you are dears, you are! Anything to please our guests during soirée weekends.”
“Thing is,” Sarah said later. “I mean everyone is just so nice and Lord Higgins-Higgins is so friendly and clever and everything is just so... you know, but I can't help feeling something is afoot.”
“I feel it too,” said Elizabeth.
Fresh from their baths and smelling of soap the girls were sipping tea and playing Snap, lost in a sea of whiteness -- of white cotton nightgowns and white blankets on a huge feather bed, floating beneath a large white canopy that had draped red velvet curtains tied back with black sashes.
“Well, here we are,” said Alice, “and our parents did say yes and Mr. Rutherford is, well, I trust him. Yes, I trust him.”
Although there was that edge that Sarah spoke of, they felt so spoiled that they decided to lose themselves in the luxury of the moment and this magical house they were buried in beneath the snow.
“Ha!” exclaimed Sarah “Snap!”
The girls were late coming down for breakfast the next morning. They had pulled the curtains of the bed closed, pretending they were in a private cabin on the night train to Paris, and had slept so deeply they'd lost all sense of time. They found the breakfast room full of late morning light and the heady scent of coffee and toast and sugar. The decor was pale wood and green wallpaper and the room had enormous French windows at one end with a huge table in the centre covered in white linen, orange flowers and cutlery. There were many places set but except for Lord Bintintinton, an elderly bespectacled gentleman with fuzzy ears, they were alone. Along the sideboard sat steaming silver urns of coffee and tea with small paraffin lamps underneath, as well as covered trays containing asparagus and what looked like scrambled eggs, toasted bread of every kind, jam, honey, peanut butter and fruit. The girls loaded their plates.
Lord Bintintinton was reading the paper. “Last week's news,” he said from behind the paper to the girls as they sat down. “Can't get anything new … snow you know … so I'm re-reading. Gives you a fresh perspective really, makes the world seem even more ridiculous...” he stopped and looked over his paper. “Seen you before, haven't I? Have you dealings with perhaps the granddaughter?” His glasses slid down his nose.
“What's your granddaughter’s name?” Alice asked, munching her toast.
“Esme. Lovely girl. Can't imagine where she gets it, the daughter is a right terror. Never really been anything but a terror. Thought it was a phase … never grew out of it. She could scare a bear I swear to you.”
The girls laughed. Lord Bintintinton ruffled the paper
“I don't know an Esme, do you Elizabeth?” asked Sarah.
“Not I,” said Elizabeth, putting honey on her toast.
“Hm, you look so familiar. Positive I've seen you somewhere. Picture or something...” He suddenly stopped and turning a slight shade of red, went back to reading the paper.
“Ha!” he snorted, “another naughty vicar, how did I miss reading that the first time!?”
The girls munched away.
There were activities planned for the whole of the day. Lady H feared ennui settling with the snow and so set a rigorous routine for her guests from breakfast on. An indoor croquet tournament was played out in a closed-off ballroom, the furniture and paintings all wrapped in cloth like they were playing ghosts. The staff had drawn back the shutters to let in the light and had set the fires blazing to warm the chilled room. Lunch was a picnic alfresco on the deep delicious carpets in the library. There the girls tasted their first glass of champagne. “I'm drinking champagne exclusively,” said Alice, draining her glass. Mrs. Fitch-Anderson-Soerenson-Soerenson played the piano and Lord Atkinson sang comical songs. Since it was nearing four in the morning, [JN1] the girls returned to their room to change and promptly fell asleep, missing tea completely.
The girls were told to wear the pixie costumes as dinner was to be fancy dress. Lord Bintintinton, delicately spooning clear soup, was dressed as an elk, his elk head beside him on the floor. Lady H was some sort of queen and was wearing a complicated and very Elizabethan costume. Mrs. Fitch-Anderson-Soerenson-Soerenson was wearing a black monk’s cloak, the hood of which was thrown back for ease of eating. In fact everyone — and there were 13 of them — was dressed in elaborate costumes.
Dinner was a complex and multi-dished affair that required at least five different forks and three different shaped glasses. The girls were in heaven save Sarah, who ate slowly, moving her eyes from guest to guest, still unable to put her finger on what it was that was making her edgy.
Lady H pinged her wine glass with a knife. “Now, ladies, it is soon time for our play.”
“My dear, we haven't had the baked jam roll,” said Lord Atkinson.
“No, no, it's just the girls, well …” she trailed off, then looking about her picked up a small hand bell and rang it. A very tall man dressed all in black and wearing a large top hat with a purple ostrich plume popped out from behind some hidden door. He was carrying a small silver tray upon which sat three delicate glasses containing a glowing green liquid. Lady H cleared her throat, “Now girls, for this to work you must drink it right away; its potency diminishes with every second.”
“Um,” started Alice, sniffing the liquid that was placed before her, “What is this? It smells of moss and incense.”
“Why, flying potion dear girl, flying potion,” laughed Lord Atkinson. He looked to the party and chuffed, “Not a very bright bulb eh!”
Lady H shot a steely glance his way and Lord Atkinson chuffed again and went red. Looking at the girls she said, “The Lord is rough around the edges, an uncut jewel, but none the less just as precious.”
“Quite,” Lord Atkinson said meekly.
The girl sniffed their drinks.
“Come, come,” said Lady H, “We would not poison you. We are not that type… more the bludgeoning sort we are, ha ha! Murder would most certainly bring our little soiree down; we very much need you alive! To get the full oomph of the final act we need you to fly.”
“Why do I think that you are not joking?” Sarah said nervously.
“Joking?” Lady H said, taken aback. “Why would I joke, we need you to fly, this is flying potion. It's very rare stuffstaff. It's not like one can just pop into the chemist and order it up.”
Mr. Rutherford, who had been silent for most of the meal, glanced up and putting his fork down said, “Girls, I know this must seem strange. I assure you we mean no harm, we are all amateur thespians at heart: lovers of spectacle, failed actors and actresses, wizards and philosophers. Why, did I mention that I am secretly an economist? We also happen to know a few people who actually can do magical and extraordinary things. People who can make concoctions, who have connections to other worlds.” He unfurled his fingers in front of him like a fan. “One such person can make flying potions. Won’t you please humour us?”
The girls looked at each other. Alice shrugged, and they all drank the potion down. Suddenly, the room began to spin.