Cobweb and Moth had averted their eyes. Now they watched again as Fay moved towards one of the abandoned railway carriages and tried to look at herself in the glass. Even in dusty reflection, she thought, the result was astonishing.
‘And now, your carriage awaits,’ said Moth.
Fay tore herself away from the sight of her transformation.
‘My carriage?’ she said. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t. I told you, I’m taking the Night Train.’
Moth smiled. ‘Of course, Your Majesty. But King Alberon knows the Night Train. He himself has taken it, all the way to Tír na nÓg and over the sea to Norrowa. Few living men can say the same. He can help, Your Majesty.’
Fay thought for a moment. She needed a friend. This world was too full of mysteries and dangerous transformations. And besides, it had been Alberon who had led her here in the first place. He owed her an explanation.
She looked down once more at her silken gown, so artfully draped and richly adorned; looked into the dusty window-glass at her crown of braided hair. A banquet, she thought; with music, and company fit for the occasion. It sounded both lovely and dangerous, and yet, perhaps, if she went along, she might learn the secret to Daisy’s return…
She looked at Cobweb and Moth. ‘Very well,’ she said, and smiled. ‘Take me to King Alberon.’
Five
The carriage Moth had promised her was precisely that: an abandoned rail car, windows smashed, and draped with bindweed and spider’s webs. Someone, decades ago, had scrawled HE PLAYED DA GABBER REEL in rose-coloured spray paint over one dull and dusty flank.
Moth smiled at Fay and beckoned her in. ‘Your carriage, Your Majesty.’
Fay picked up her pack and cautiously looked inside the carriage. It smelt of age, and dust, and weeds, and cracked and ancient leather. How could it travel anywhere? There wasn’t even an engine, she thought. And yet things were not as they seemed in this place, where tigers talked, and bees wove silken fabrics more intricate than the most exquisite brocade. Holding the skirts of her gown away from the clutching briars, she chose the seat that seemed least damaged, and sat there, with her pack on her knees. Moth and Cobweb joined her, taking their places by the door. Cobweb pulled out a silver cigarette case and lit a small, brown cigarette, using an old-fashioned lighter almost as large as the case itself. The smoke coiled into the air like vines. Fay caught the scent of madcap.
She opened her mouth to comment, but already something was happening. As the madcap filled the space, the inside of the carriage seemed to shift and shimmer. At first Fay thought that maybe the smoke was affecting her eyes, but it seemed as if the carriage had been transformed, to become a lavish interior. The cracked and faded leather seats had changed to elegant armchairs with cushions of midnight-blue velvet. The ceiling was painted in the same rich colour, and gilded with thousands of silver stars. The dangling briars had become chandeliers filled with lighted candles, and there was a scent of patchouli and rose and sandalwood and spices.
‘Glamours, Your Majesty,’ said Cobweb, whose pink sweatshirt and legwarmers had now become a brightly coloured tunic of something that looked like feathers. ‘Even here, in London Beyond, our people like to go unseen.’
‘Too many enemies,’ said Moth. ‘Too many spies and predators.’
Moth, too, had changed, Fay noticed. Gone were the eyepatch and the tattoos. Gone too, was the illusion of something more or less human. Now a row of gleaming eyes shone out from a mask of feathers, and the intricate designs that Fay had taken for tattoos now seemed to be natural markings, grey and brown and russet against the downy, luminous skin.
The carriage was moving, she realized; almost soundlessly, on the rails. How this could be, with no engine, she had no idea, and yet through the windows she could see the sooty arches of King’s Cross. The carriage entered a tunnel; for a moment Fay saw light reflected against the seeping stone. Through an arch she saw a glimpse of torches burning, then darkness fell like a velvet curtain over the scene. The carriage was moving so silently that Fay had no idea of its speed, and so when it emerged into sunlight she was startled to see the scenery passing in a blur of fitful colours. They had somehow left the rails, and were moving through a stretch of unfamiliar countryside. Trees flashed past, their trailing branches slapping against the glass, and Fay could see that their leaves were young and green, as if in springtime.
She barely had time to take in the view when they entered another tunnel. This time, when they emerged, it was into a scene of unfamiliar streets, with a sky like faded roses reflected in towers of grasshopper glass. Then another tunnel, and they emerged into a soft grey mist, in which great, delicate structures, like cranes, seemed to stride on endless legs.
Leaning forward, she tried to see what kind of engine was pulling the carriage. But when she put her face to the glass, she saw, not a locomotive, but something that made her pull back with a gasp. The carriage was being pulled by a quartet of creatures that looked to be something between a flying horse and a giant hummingbird moth. All were a curious silver-grey, with great wings blurring furiously, and powerful flanks, and narrow heads, topped with plume-like antennae. A complicated harness kept the strange creatures under control, and as Fay watched she saw that there was someone holding the reins, perching high above the team in a tiny, precarious seat. Purple hair flew angrily. Lightning cracked from their fingers. It was Peronelle.
‘Have no fear, Your Majesty,’ said Cobweb. ‘The hellride is nearly over.’
Hellride, thought Fay. An apt term, having seen their driver. The carriage was entering another of those tunnels. Darkness, now stitched with tiny lights, surrounded the railway carriage. There was no sensation of movement; no sense of how much time had passed. Only the glow from the candles illuminated the carriage. And then the door opened, and she saw someone in the doorway; a tall, pale man with long hair, richly dressed in dark velvet and wearing a crown of white gems that shone like the light of the full moon on ice.
For a moment Fay was unsure of the tall, pale man’s identity. He looked somewhat familiar, and yet she did not know him until he smiled; a warm and familiar smile that seemed born of a lifetime’s acquaintance.
‘Queen Orfeia. Well met,’ he said. ‘Welcome to London Beneath.’
It was Alberon.
Six
Alighting from the carriage, Fay found herself in a passageway lined with tiny, stuttering lights. They looked like strings of fairy lights, but closer observation showed them to be clusters of glowing insects.
‘Torchflies, Your Majesty,’ said Moth, who was already busy unharnessing the moth-horse creatures that had drawn the carriage. Peronelle was hard at work, brushing down their dusty flanks, sending great clouds of luminescence into the air. The creatures were restless, their fluttering wings making a dry and thunderous sound, their plume-like feelers turning to Fay in eager curiosity. Now that she saw them more closely, Fay could see the death’s-head pattern behind their heads, etched in soot on the dappled pelt that was neither fur nor feathers, but some hybrid of both.
Alberon took her hand and guided her down the passageway. ‘I hope your journey was comfortable.’
Fay nodded. ‘As hellrides go.’