The Master Of Misrule Part 2

It was the wrong thing to say. "That's private," she said austerely.

"Right. Sorry."

She waited for a while before going on. "I knew right from the start the invitation wasn't a hoax, that it was meant to be.... It was like I'd found something I'd been searching for my whole life without realizing it."

"Same here! Same exactly. But, uh, the thing is, you weren't the only person at school who was in the Game, were you?"

"No." Mia touched her hand to her forehead. The skin around the scar there still had a new, pinkish look. "I knew pretty quickly that Mr. Marlow was in it as well. You get an instinct for other players. Later, I saw him at one of the gatherings at Temple House. But though we never acknowledged each other as knights, the thrill of the Game was always between us ... part burden, part privilege. Our secret.

"And then it turned out we were going for the same prize, at the same time. We were evenly matched, too: each with a complete round behind us. The fifth and final move in a round is always the triumph you want to win. So the Game Masters told us we had to compete within the same card. Winner takes all."

"Like a duel," breathed Toby. "You went to the threshold in the school clock tower, ready to play the move, but Marlow tried to knock you out before you could even enter the Arcanum. And when I came and pulled him off you, he tried to wipe you out with his ace instead! What a dirty trick."

Mia shot him a swift look. "How did you know we were there, anyhow?"

"I overheard you arranging to meet. Of course, I didn't know about the Game. I a.s.sumed it was something to do with the Chameleons."

"The Chameleons? Oh ... that silly secret society."

He winced. Once upon a time, that "silly" society had meant everything to Toby. It had been his creation, his vision, and it had been stolen from him.

Although Toby was not a natural loner, at boarding school he had found himself treated like one. Forced to hide out in quiet corners, he had spent a lot of time in accidental eavesdropping. That was how, in the library one lunchtime, he'd overheard a group of seniors talking about their legacy for the final year. They wanted to do something for the school to remember them by. They should form a secret society, they decided, but what for?

It was at that point that Toby had popped up from behind a bookshelf. "The society could be about dares," he said.

The older kids had stared at him with a mixture of pity and contempt. The ringleader, Seth, had sneered. But Toby made them listen. "Most dares are for short-term stunts, to do something silly or dangerous. What if you drew straws to actually change people, to upset the natural order of things?"

"How d'you mean?" Seth asked.

"Like, how about a dare for two completely incompatible people to start dating? Or a dare for a player on a sports team to start losing games? Or for one of the prefects to start breaking the rules? Think how it would shake this place up!"

And he was right. The society, and the games they played, became a runaway success. A success that Toby was given no credit for.

"I thought if I followed you that night," he explained to Mia, "the Chameleons might let me join them."

Finally, he was able to tell her his side of the story. He had stopped fretting about his prize. The only thing that mattered now was Mia, listening to him intently with her chin propped on her hands.

"I'm just glad I could, you know, help out," he finished.

She screwed up her mouth in an odd little smile. "You did more than that. You changed my fate."

"Well, you're safe from Mr. Marlow now. You won."

"Not quite. I never got the chance to play that final move, you see. To win my triumph, I would have to start a whole new round. And there's not much chance of that. The old ways of winning are gone."

"Gone?"

"Gone, changed, lost." Mia leaned across the table. Under the intensity of her gaze, he felt his own begin to waver. "And all because of you."

Then she suddenly rose to her feet, her voice brightly social. "Come on. I've got something to show you."

This time she led him to the back of the mall, past more empty shop fronts and through several sets of swinging doors, until they were outside the delivery entrance to the building.

The concrete plain spread out ahead of them, as far as the eye could see, but in contrast to the bareness inside the mall, their immediate vicinity was crowded with abandoned merchandise and discarded window displays. It was half dump, half depot. Wide-screen televisions, still in their boxes, were piled up alongside limbless mannequins and banners proclaiming SALE! SALE! SALE! A huge Christmas tree, its needles soft and brown among shreds of tinsel, was propped up inside a Dumpster. For a nasty moment, Toby thought there was a body lying among the trash bags, until he realized it was the life-sized Santa mannequin from the mall's grotto, lying facedown with one plastic arm drunkenly outstretched.

Mia moved among stacks of boxed microwaves and coffeemakers, designer sofas and racks of men's suits, all waterlogged. The rain had slackened, and she didn't seem to think her umbrella was necessary, even though she was wearing only a cotton tea dress over leggings and worn-down ballet flats. Toby was shivering in the drizzle.

When he caught up with her, she was standing by a larger version of the gaming table in his room. This one's terrain was much more intricate, however: a chaotic hodgepodge of model mountains, forests, rivers, towns and plains, each of which, though beautifully detailed, had been built to a different scale. The figures, too, were of contrasting shapes and sizes, and although he saw a couple of knights and goblins that could have come from his collection, there were also old-fashioned lead soldiers, Lego men and the kind of plastic animals sold with toy zoos. All were hopelessly entangled in the landscape and with each other, for the display was in even greater disarray than his one at home.

Mia swept her arm over the table in an oddly formal gesture. "Behold, our Field of Play."

"Is this ... is this supposed to be ... the Arcanum?"

"And look at the state of it," she said severely. For it was true that, quite apart from the strewn figures, the miniature landscape was badly chipped and cracked, its painted details streaky with rain. One of the legs was wonky, so that the table tilted dangerously. "Look what you've done."

"I don't understand you. The Arcanum has been set free. Not ... broken."

"Free! What does free mean?"

"That the Game is fair for the first time. The kings and queens have been kicked out, along with their stupid rules."

"So who is going to be umpire?"

"Well, the man I-we-released, the Hanged Man-"

"The Lord of Misrule."

"Yes," Toby said uncomfortably. "If that's what he's calling himself now. But he's not a tyrant like the old kings and queens. He's more of a new, improved Game Master. A Master of Misrule-without any of the point scoring and punishments."

"He's not interested in dealing cards and awarding prizes, either, let alone fair play. And where does that leave all the other knights adrift in the Arcanum?"

"They'll be free to do what they want. Everyone in the Game is."

"Everyone and anyone," Mia echoed. Her face was bleak. "Heads to win, tails to lose. Yes ... we won't be the chosen few for much longer, Toby. The Game is growing, finding new players, and the old rules and boundaries are falling away."

"The rules were wrong," he said stubbornly.

"The rules imposed limits. Some of those limits weren't there to constrain but to protect."

Before he could respond, Mia had shaken her head impatiently and moved on.

He found her waiting for him behind the Dumpster with the Christmas tree.

Another prop from Santa's grotto was there: a red sleigh, festooned with tinsel and drawn by two white fibergla.s.s reindeer. Mia was enthroned in the sleigh, lolling against its high back.

She turned to survey him, eyebrows raised. "Well, I suppose it would be more impressive with sphinxes."

Toby took out his card, and looked from the tacky novelty carriage to the warrior's chariot, the winged creatures at his reins, the canopy of stars. From inside the mall, "Jingle Bells" was playing. The song floated through in s.n.a.t.c.hes, jumbled as the figures on the toy landscape.

Dashing through- -open sleigh- Oh, what fun it is to ride- Oh, what fun- Laughing all the way- If this is the punch line, then I am the joke, thought Toby. And he flushed red with shame and bitterness.

"Tell me, Toby, what did you imagine your reward would be?" Mia asked him, leaning down from the chariot to reach for his card.

But the truth was, he'd never thought very hard about how the abstract qualities of his triumph would translate into real life. The most he'd come up with was a soft-focus vision of himself striding through moves in the Arcanum, rescuing damsels in distress, making judgments, completing quests....

"Heroism isn't much good in the ordinary world," she said, as if she'd read his mind. "Not the kind you're thinking of, at any rate. Not these days."

"I guess not." He hung his head.

"The Game needs it, though. In fact, you could say that heroism is one of the few prizes that work best in the Arcanum rather than outside of it."

At this he looked up, newly hopeful. Mia was sitting straight and proud now, as the tinsel garlands at her back quivered in the night breeze.

"This is an empty move, Toby. The Charioteer has abandoned his chariot. The boundaries between the moves are breaking down, and with them the Arcanum. So if you want to keep playing, you're going to have to put the Game to rights first. You'll soon see how corrupted it has become ... and then you'll have to fight for it, you hear?"

"Yes. Whatever needs to be done, I'll do it. I swear."

She nodded. "I believe in you." Mischief hovered at the corners of her mouth again. "Though I'm sorry about the sphinxes."

"Oh, this version's more festive." Confidence was suddenly bubbling inside him, and he realized that he wouldn't want to change anything-not the mocking Christmas jingle, or the shopping mall, or even those absurd reindeer. Everything was as it should be. Because although the Game worked in crooked ways, his faith in it had been proved right. What should have been an appalling blow-he'd been cheated and exploited, disaster had struck-had instead given him new strength and purpose.

Toby, the hero, had a wrong to right.

FLORA'S CELL PHONE BEGAN to ring. Insistently. She looked at the screen and saw that it was Cat.

"Aren't you going to answer it?" Charlie asked.

"No. It won't be anything important." She shrugged sweetly at him, though what she really wanted to do was stamp the phone into silence beneath her heel. Flora had already had an incoherent voice mail from Toby, rambling on about quests and sacred duties and Saving the Game. And now this. Why couldn't these people just leave her alone? Of course, that was unfair of her-unkind, too-but knowing she was being unreasonable only made everything more frustrating.

Part of the frustration was at being at this stupid benefit luncheon, the latest in the round of seasonal parties. Her parents avoided being left to their own company as much as possible, and it seemed her every moment had been taken up by some enforced festive gathering since ... well, since the events of Boxing Day. She felt another jab of anger.

"Flo, are you all right? You're looking a little stressed out." Charlie was leaning over her solicitously.

"Oh, it's just the post-Christmas grumps. Mince pie withdrawal syndrome." Remembering where she was-who she had to be-Flora twirled a strand of honey-blond hair and sparkled up at him in her best party manner.

Charlie grinned back, a little sheepishly. He was a nice boy, she thought, as if considering someone much younger and not particularly connected to her. If she'd been in a better mood, she would have acknowledged that it was a nice party, too. The Avoncourts' large drawing room was filled with the contented hum of people relaxing into well-established social routines. From where she was standing, she could see Georgia and Tilly, two of her best friends from school, gossiping in a corner. Her father was holding court on the other side of the room, where he was laughing at something Lady Swinton had said, all crinkly-eyed amus.e.m.e.nt and easy charm. And there was Mummy, with a gla.s.s in her hand-of course-but, thankfully, without that over-bright, brittle look that meant danger. Perhaps today was going to be one of her mother's good days, when the drink worked its old magic of making the world a kinder place.

Flora's phone beeped. Cat had left a message. She ignored it and forced herself to look as if she was paying attention to whatever Charlie was saying. She wondered what Georgia and Tilly were giggling about. It might well be to do with her; she and Charlie had kissed on a couple of occasions, one fairly recently, and it was becoming harder to ignore the expectation building within their group.

Well, it made sense. They had known each other forever; in fact, his older brother, Will, had been friends with Grace, and was one of the few people outside the family who-very occasionally-still visited her. Moreover, they shared the same kind of una.s.suming good looks, both being blue-eyed and fair, and he was popular in the same steady, unshowy way that she was popular. Two sides of the same coin, Flora thought with black humor. Because of course she and Charlie were nothing alike. How could they be? Neither he nor anybody else here could possibly imagine the things she had seen, and what she had done.

But if the secret of the Game was lonely, it could be exhilarating, too. Sometimes, when she was with the others in the school common room, or at their favorite coffee shop, she would be laughing at the jokes, joining in with the stories, and still feel the tug of her other life, like a dark ripple through her veins. Then she would look at Charlie, or Georgia, or whoever it was, and think with a disdainful thrill, You don't know me at all.

Right at the moment, her sense of displacement was excruciating. Grace was waiting. Grace! Her sister, the miracle, the prize that would make their family whole again. The only thing Flora needed to do was to bring her home. For what felt like the hundred thousandth time, her hand moved to touch the card in her pocket. The Eight of Swords depicted a young woman, bound and blindfolded, inside a cage of swords. A cliff-top castle loomed behind her. It was the same card Grace had been holding when her ten-year-old sister had found her in her scarlet evening gown, splayed across the snow. That first card had been taken away from Flora, but this one was new, and hers to play.

And with each further delay, it became harder not to twist her bland smile into a snarl, to keep from screaming curses in the midst of this complacent crowd, to stop herself kicking and scratching until she drew blood, lashing out at anyone who got in her way....

She took a deep breath.

"Charlie," she said after patiently waiting for the end of a rugby match anecdote, "I'm frightfully sorry but I'm afraid I'm going to have to take off. I've started to get a splitting headache."

Of course he was the perfect gentleman, and offered to make her excuses to the relevant friends and family without even having to be asked. The Avoncourts were neighbors, only five minutes down the road from Flora's house, and so she felt quite able to turn down his proposal to walk her home. His kindness made her feel both undeserving and exasperated.

No sooner had Flora left the house than her phone began to ring. Again, she ignored it. "What does everyone want from me?" she said aloud. The more quickly she walked, the more quickly their faces seemed to crowd around. She thought of her mother after she'd come back from visiting Grace, and how she'd never asked Flora anything or even said a word, but after reapplying her lipstick with a hand that trembled, she'd topped up the gla.s.s by her side. She thought of the look her mother had exchanged with her father: his contempt, her appeal, their shared helplessness. She thought of Charlie, so considerate and so clueless, and, like everybody else, wanting what she couldn't give....

By the time Flora reached the end of her street, she was practically running. She forced herself to slow down and breathe normally. It was important to be calm. She had plenty of time. Her parents were bound to stay at the Avoncourts' for a good while yet, as it was their last social engagement before they left for a New Year's skiing party tomorrow. Flora wasn't going, pleading the pressures of coursework and plans with friends. Of course, the trip would be off as soon as they got the phone call from the clinic, but- No, don't think ahead, she told herself with a kind of panic. The swell of expectation was almost too much to bear.

The Seaton home was part of a row of tall white Regency mansions that backed onto one of London's loveliest parks. When Flora let herself into the house, she could hear Mina, the housekeeper, moving about upstairs, but she didn't stop to say h.e.l.lo. Instead, she walked-neat, calm, purposeful-straight through the ground floor to the garden, and the door in the wall that opened directly onto the park.

It was a dank, raw day, and there weren't many people about, just a few dog walkers and, in the distance, a halfhearted football game. Near the main gates, three teenage boys were bickering over something.

"I'm telling you, if it comes up tails, you're doomed," one of them was saying. "Some random disaster hits you out of nowhere and-bam!"

"Yeah," said his mate. "And if you win heads, it's the opposite. Like having all your Christmases come at once."

"You two'ud believe any old c.r.a.p," the other boy jeered. "Everyone knows those rumors are a windup. It's just some dumb publicity stunt."

"So why haven't you scratched your coin off, then?"

" 'Cause I'm not bothered."

"No, 'cause you're chicken."

"Screw you-"

Idiots, thought Flora, walking briskly by. She was headed toward a summerhouse set on a small hill. In warmer weather, there were often people relaxing on its steps, but today she had it to herself. It was designed like a miniature cla.s.sical temple, and there was the sign of the wheel worked into the base of one of its columns.

Flora had no need to use a die to play her card. The threshold to Grace's last move was already in place, and had been ever since the winter's night five years ago when her sister had used it to enter the Arcanum and had never come back. Or rather, only part of her had come back: the inanimate doll in the hospital bed, as much a captive as the prisoner on the card. But Flora knew that the real Grace-the living, laughing Grace-was somewhere in the Arcanum still. And it was this hope that kept Flora returning to the Game, as if each new move she entered would bring a fresh clue, another chance.

But today was different. Today, she would go into the Eight of Swords and find her sister waiting. That was the promise.

Flora bent to sketch the lines of the wheel, the coin heavy in her palm. When she tossed it, it felt as if her heart was leaping into the air along with the metal, up and up, so that the whole world seemed to be soaring with her....

Because as soon as the scene flipped sides to the Arcanum, she knew that everything was going to be all right. It was as if she'd stepped back in time to that snowy evening five years before.

The Arcanum's landscapes were frequently silent and lifeless, but here the city's lights glittered above and behind the fringe of trees, and traffic still purred at the park's rim. She could even hear a distant echo of the football game. And, most wonderful of all, there was a skein of embroidery silk looped around one of the summerhouse's columns. It was red, just like the thread she had found tied to Grace's finger, and snaked invitingly down the slope from the column and along the line of a path.

Flora touched the card in her pocket, with its picture of the caged woman and the castle behind. "Grace," she said aloud. "Grace, I'm coming."

The snow was several inches deep and as immaculate as sugar frosting. As she took the thin red thread in her hand and followed it across the folds of glistening white, the sense of familiarity receded until, a little after leaving the park's main thoroughfare, Flora looked behind her and saw that the city's rooftops had vanished from behind the trees, along with the traffic's hum. She was in a landscape of rolling hills and tree-furred hollows.

It was bitterly cold. She was wearing a wool coat and scarf, but she'd forgotten her gloves, and her shoes were unsuited to wading through snow. The drifts were getting deeper, and new flakes were already beginning to spiral through the darkening sky.

I'm coming.

I'm coming.

She reached the foot of a steep hill. Through the lace of trees above, there were windows shining, warm as syrup, and she saw a house of high gray walls and wide lawns. It was Grace's clinic, an old country mansion that had been converted into a center for long-term care. Here in the Arcanum, it was larger and grander than on the other side of the threshold, its roof higgledy-piggledy with new slopes and turrets. Moreover, it was blazing with light, every chimney smoking, every door flung open in welcome.