Tina Connolly - Copperhead

Thought became action, and Helen slid off her ruined clothes and slipped into the knit dress, adjusting it to get it to hang correctly. She crouched under the steep rafters to take the belt from her skirt on the floor, and stopped as something fell from her skirt pocket.

The telegram Mary had handed her that afternoon, just before Alistair walked in. Helen’s heart raced as she ripped open the seal. What would Mr. Rochart say about what she had told him? And now, Jane was back, and she would need to inform him of the new situation.…

“PER FOREST, SELF-STYLED BLUE KING IN CITY. MOVING FAST,” it read. “TAKING NEXT TRAIN FOR JANE. ROCHART.”

Her face paled as she deciphered the cryptic sentences. Blue King—the Fey King, that meant. Confirmation of what Niklas had said—a fey who called himself the Fey King was here, in the city. Rochart had learned it from his strange, dangerous excursion into the forest with Dorie. They must have just returned.

Helen stood, in a frenzy of what to do. She paced—no, there was no room to pace here, and things everywhere she turned— Energy sent her down the attic steps. The small party had drifted downstairs—they could be heard at the piano. Frye was still not there, nor was she in any of the other public rooms. Helen went back up the stairs and paced the second-floor landing, wanting desperately to talk to someone, to unburden herself, when Alberta stuck her head out to see what the noise was. Her hairdo was still intact, but she was in a pair of men’s blue-and-white-striped pyjamas, smelling of a clean citrusy soap.

“A telegram fell out of my pocket,” Helen said incoherently. “And things are happening fast, and if Mr. Rochart’s coming to find Jane, where is he going to go? Alistair’s, and I’m not there.…”

“Did you have too much gin?” said Alberta.

“None yet,” said Helen.

Alberta sighed. “Come to my room and tell me everything.” She turned and padded to the guest room, Helen behind her. The small guest room had a double bed, layered with several quilts, a dresser shellacked in shiny black, and hooks randomly spaced around the walls, two of which held a bright yellow and a bright orange dress. Under the window stood a battered metal music stand and an open case with a silver sax in it. Alberta plonked down cross-legged on the bed and passed Helen a silver flask. “That’s actually decent stuff,” she said, “and if you drink it all you owe me a bottle.”

Helen took a cautious sip and found that it was, indeed, a decent scotch. “Two nights ago Jane and I almost killed someone,” she said.

“That’s an opening,” said Alberta. She began taking down her hairdo with its silk poppy. “Go on.”

Another sip to loosen the tongue and it all came out, all Helen’s worries and fears and questions. “And I thought once Jane turned up I could go back to being her helper—let her make the big decisions. Except I don’t know if she was drugged or what but she’s definitely not deciding anything tonight. So now the question is should I go back to Alistair’s right now and try to meet up with her fiancé or not,” she finished up. “I mean, if he’s there, he could take over. But even if I do go, I can’t take Jane with me. This is really good scotch.”

“Okay, back up,” said Alberta. “Now firstly, this fiancé guy is a rich man. He’s not going to go straight from the train to your husband’s house, even if he is worried about Jane. He’ll get a hotel. Secondly, if he has the sense given to little green apples, he’ll know things might be touchy at your place. He’ll send a message ’round to you for how to reach him.”

“And Alistair will intercept that,” said Helen. “No, wait, Alistair has changed.” She took another drink.

“It’ll be coded,” put in Alberta. “Haven’t you ever had to be dodgy before?”

“Ppffft. Only when I was trying to get away from that doctor. And the creditors. And those men who would follow me around the dance hall and just watch, you know?” Helen waved a hand dramatically. “Just watch …”

“I’ll take that, thank you,” said Alberta, and she plucked the silver flask back from Helen, peered inside. “You owe me.”

Helen studied the pretty face sitting across from her on the bed. It was in fact very pleasant to feel warmed all over, and as though you could just say anything you wanted, without running through all those damn machinations of thought . “So are you going to change back?” Helen said. And the calculating part of her brain thought, well, maybe now is in fact the only time you could get away with asking Alberta that question.

Alberta ran her fingers over the patterned silver flask. “I don’t know,” she said, and there was a connection, an honesty to the words. “It seems to me I’m completely justified in staying this way.”

Helen nodded. “In fact that’s true,” she said. “Keep your iron and don’t mind me.”

“Why haven’t you changed back yet?”

“So I can convince people against their will,” Helen said. She suddenly grinned. “And so I can stay prettiest the longest.”

It was the first real smile she’d gotten from Alberta. “Wait,” she said, and she got off the bed, and padded in her blue-and-white pyjamas to the open saxophone case. From a velvet pocket she took out a cheap battered locket and passed it to Helen.

Even tipsy, Helen had a guess what was in it. “Is this you?” she said. Alberta said nothing, just waited while Helen teased open the locket to reveal two pictures inside. They were faded, the old blue-and-white photos of the pre-war fey tech. One was of an attractive, smiling, dark-skinned girl of about eighteen. The other was a woman a generation older.

“That one’s me,” said Alberta, and there was a lurching moment where Helen thought she meant the older woman, but then Alberta said, “and that’s my mother.”

“You look so much alike,” Helen said, and immediately modified, “Looked.” She glanced up into Alberta’s beautiful face and realized then what was hard for her, what had been hard all along. “Is she gone?”

“It’s an old story, isn’t it?” said Alberta. Her hand closed on the locket, snapping it shut. “The war, you know.”

“I know,” said Helen, and she covered Alberta’s hand with her own. “I know.”

Helen woke to find Jane standing at the end of her bed, staring at her. It made her sit up straight, which made her crack her head on the steep rafters. “Goodness, Jane, what on earth?” It was morning, and light filtered in through porthole windows on each end of the attic.

“I know you like dresses and all,” said Jane. “But what on earth are we doing in this giant wardrobe?”

“Jane!” crowed Helen. “You’re feeling better!”

“If having one’s head inside a vise is feeling better, then yes,” Jane said dryly. “Honestly, where are we?”

“The garret at Frye’s. You know Frye.”

“Of course,” said Jane, and turned to walk toward the door, then suddenly turned white and crumpled to the ground in a heap.

“Jane!” shrieked Helen, and ran to help her up.

“I’m sorry.…,” Jane said faintly. “Sort of … dizzy.…” Her face was dead white.

“When did you last eat?”

“I don’t remember?” Jane looked even whiter, if possible. “I … don’t remember much, actually. We were at the Grimsbys’?”

“Oh dear,” said Helen. “That was three days ago. Do you think you’ve eaten anything since then?”

“It’s all sort of a blur,” Jane confessed. “I remember a warehouse … seeing you there.…” She grimaced. “I don’t remember it having much in the way of eggs and toast.”