The Court at Castle Chansany by Charlotte E. English

Author:Charlotte E. English [English, Charlotte E.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Castle Tales
Published: 2024-02-02T00:00:00+00:00

The roots of this disaster lay some days before – or perhaps months, for the first sylph had arrived at Castle Chansany at the previous Year’s Turn.

Before that, the Castle had been, if not quieter, then more restful, despite the clamour of courtiers and craftsmen, of traders and servants, of hounds and horses and – yes – of Wizards and dragons, too. A single sylph, invisible to the eyes of all but Baldringa; so insignificant a creature, a mere wisp of wind, a cool breeze ruffling the hair, a whisper at the edge of comprehension – one might imagine only one such could scarce throw the life of the Castle into chaos.

Yet, she had. She could not be persuaded to stop bathing herself in the bubbling vats of lemonade prepared in the kitchens, and served up in silver pitchers above-stairs; no marchpane comfit was safe, unless she were given a handsome share; she filched ribbons from the coiffed locks of the Queen’s Ladies, turned courtiers’ hats inside-out and whisked them away, set the hounds to chasing rabbits made of naught but smoke and wizardry.

At first, these antics enlivened the castle’s inhabitants, the sylph’s airy laughter bringing joy to the ears of those privileged enough to hear it. Only at length did the tide of approval turn, and some few among the Court began to feel wearied of it, and to look to Baldringa in mingled accusation and plea.

For it was Baldringa who had invited the little sylph – or conjured her up, perhaps, out of air and nothingness, in a great cauldron made of copper and magic. No one knew why, the ways of Wizards being, generally, inscrutable.

When at last she upset a tureen of turtle soup all over Their Majesties’ brocade table-cloth, ruining the sumptuous garb of more than one lord and lady in the process, and burning an unlucky footman rather badly about the hand, Their Royal Majesties, as one, beseeched – indeed, commanded – the great Baldringa to do something about it. Please.

The distant moon had waxed to plumpness and waned again since, an insignificant span of days. Yet; at the end of them, a regretful Wizard and a broken Castle.

What happened was: this.

‘I suppose she is lonely,’ mused Baldringa, beholding the solitary sylph with dispassionate eyes as the wispy thing disported herself with an array of golden cutlery. ‘The only one of her kind within a day’s ride of the castle, I shouldn’t wonder. Perhaps the distance is greater still. How should we all feel, were we so alone among strangers, and of another kind to ourselves?’

A line of thinking by no means so bad, for a Wizard. It displayed a transitory compassion, at the very least, even if it was misdirected. Baldringa summoned up another sylph, from wherever it was she had procured the first, and it was with a great sense of personal satisfaction that she released the second whirling gale of mischief to join her fellow.

The mischief, approximately, doubled.

The Queen’s favourite lady-in-waiting lost

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