Miss Landon and Aubranael (Paperback)

Mornin’, folks, an’ how do ye do? My name’s Balligumph—Mister Balligumph, if ye don’t mind—an’ I’m the guardian o’ this here toll-bridge ye’ve fetched up at. Ain’t she a beauty? Not altogether big enough to merit a toll, ye may be thinkin’—but don’t be worryin’ yer heads about it. The toll’s not steep. All I’ll be askin’ fer is a scrappit o’ information—a secret, if ye’re minded to call it that. Here, whisper it in my ear—don’t be shy, now! I may be a sight bigger’n you, but ye won’t find a gentler troll across the whole o’ Lincolnshire, that I guarantee. Or one better dressed.

There, that’ll do. Thas one mighty interestin’ nugget o’ truth fer me, an’ free passage into the pretty town o’ Tilby for you. Been here before? ‘Tis an ordinary enough town, most times, though once in a while somethin’ special happens.

The last time was exactly a year ago today! Began around the first o’ May—Beltane, as ye’ll know. Many a strange thing can happen on Beltane. Perhaps ye’d like to hear the tale? ‘Tis a fine morning, an’ I’ll not keep ye more’n an hour or so. Well… not very much more, anyhow.

Ye would! Well, then, step out o’ that carriage and take a seat on this here handsome patch o’ grass, an’ I’ll begin. It’s to the Parsonage we’re goin’ first: that buildin’ just away yonder, do y’see? There’s a new family there now, but a year ago it was the home of old Reverend Landon an’ his daughter, Miss Sophy.

It’s Miss Sophy tha’ this story is about. The sweetest, sunniest young woman in all o’ Tilby, she was, an’ a nimbler set o’ fingers with a sewing needle I never did see…

* * *

Miss Sophia Landon—Sophy, to those who knew her well—wrapped a piece of court plaister around her bleeding finger, and sighed. She had dripped blood on Thundigle’s new shirt. Turning the tiny garment around in her hands, she tried to persuade herself that the speck of rapidly browning blood wasn’t visible.

‘Not very visible, at least,’ she muttered under her breath. It was the second shirt she had made that morning, and her fingers had almost escaped unscathed. Almost.

Laying the new shirts side-by-side, she surveyed them both. The contrast between the two amused her, and her smile broadened. The first shirt was for her father. It was large, to accommodate the generous girth he had acquired through years of good dining. It was made from the best linen they could afford; this still placed it several cuts below the fine garments worn by some of their neighbours, but still, it was respectable and she was proud of it. Her father, a clergyman with only a modest living, loved his table far more than his clothes, and he hadn’t had a shirt this fine in years. Sophy had worked every stitch as carefully as she could, determined that it should be perfect. And it was.

The second shirt was only as wide as her palm. It was dwarfed beside the Reverend George Landon’s. She had made it from the scraps of linen left over from the first project, so it was every bit as good as her father’s—except for the speck of blood. She had sewn it with every bit as much love, because this shirt was for a friend.

Picking up the tiny shirt, she left the parlour and made her way to the dusty room upstairs that had belonged to her mother. The chamber remained in much the same state it had been in when she had died: it was comfortably furnished and prettily decorated, albeit in the style of ten or fifteen years before In spite of its furnishings, it possessed an air of emptiness, for her mother’s possessions had long since been lovingly adopted by Sophy herself. Neither she nor her father had found the heart to make use of the room, however.

One corner of this faded chamber was different. A set of miniature furniture stood fastidiously arranged: a little oak table with two matching chairs, a tiny closet and a rocking chair. Sophy herself had sewn the tiny rag rug that covered the floor, and the cushions that covered the rocking chair’s hard seat and back.

Sophy sat down on the floor nearby, heedless of the folds of her dress, and laid the shirt carefully across the little table. She placed a tiny bowl of honey beside it, and a second full of clear water.

‘Thundigle!’ she called. ‘I have a gift for you.’

A puff of light erupted in the air before her, and the Landon household brownie appeared. He was a diminutive creature with dark brown skin, wild curly brown hair and eyes the colour of autumn leaves.

‘Miss Landon,’ Thundigle said with a graceful bow. ‘You are generous, as always.’

Sophy smiled. ‘You haven’t seen what it is, yet.’

Thundigle smiled back, his expression still faintly shy despite his several years’ residence in her family. ‘Dear Miss Sophy, what need have I to see it when I can smell it? It is lavender flower again, isn’t it? The most fragrant honey…’ He turned to the table, his black eyes alight with anticipation, but when his gaze fell on the shirt he stopped. ‘But what is this beautiful thing?’ Picking it up in his gnarled hands, he turned it about, holding it as though it were very fragile. Sophy discreetly eyed his twelve-inch tall frame, and smiled in satisfaction. The shirt was correctly proportioned and should fit him, and the fine fabric would, she hoped, last a good while.

Thundigle looked up at her with quivering lip, a gleam of moisture shining in his dark eyes. ‘Miss Landon, this is far too much.’ His hands were shaking as he held the shirt. ‘Such fabric as this—I can feel the fineness of the weave—each individual thread…’ He tailed off, overcome with emotion.

Sophy suppressed an urge to giggle: Thundigle didn’t like to be laughed at. He was a remarkably well-dressed brownie; most of his kind wore rough garments and were offended by offerings of clothes, but Sophy had won her brownie helper’s heart years ago when she had discerned his eye for sartorial elegance. She had made him a number of outfits, cobbled together out of scraps from her father’s worn-out clothes: long trousers of beige cloth, shirts with full sleeves and snowy cravats, a waistcoat of dark wool and even a deep red cutaway coat.

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