"What kind of secrets?" Ruth asked curiously.
"The kind that can never be told." Cormorel was enjoying his games.
Church saw something that resembled mediaeval woodcarvings of a griffin, another that resembled accounts of a manticore.
Ruth stood up, suddenly spying something so hideous in the shadows on the edge of the room she could barely believe her eyes. "Is that a giant toad?" she asked disbelievingly. "With wings? And a tail?"
Cormorel laughed. "Ah, the Water-Leaper. The Llamhigyn Y Dwr. Feared by your fishermen, many of whom were dragged to their deaths after it seized their lines. The Water-Leaper rarely ventures up from the bilge tanks. I wonder why it is here tonight?"
Ruth shook her head in amazement. "God, I don't believe it. This place is insane."
"Oh, this is indeed a Ship of Fools, Dragon Sister. So many searching, looking for guidance, meaning, in their short, unhappy lives."
"But you don't need to search, Cormorel?" Church said.
"I am happy with my place in the great, unfolding scheme." Baccharus muttered something under his breath, eliciting a stony glare from Cormorel.
Before any further comment could be made, a group emerged from a door hidden behind curtains away to one side. There were five of them, all Tuatha De Danann, but of a branch on a par with Cormorel and Baccharus, carrying musical instruments: a pair of fiddles, a flute, something percussive that Church didn't recognise and another thing that looked completely unplayable. A muttering rippled through the diners; it appeared generally appreciative, though it was hard to be sure.
"Hey, they got a band," Ruth said in a bored, faux-Brooklyn accent.
But once the musicians began playing, both Church and Ruth were instantly entranced. Their music soared to the rafters, taking on a life of its own so it was impossible to tell which instrument was playing which section. Every bar evoked deep emotions within them: joy, sadness, wonder, passing in the blink of an eye, to be replaced by a new feeling. They could both understand the old stories of hapless mortals entranced by the fairy music, only to discover a hundred years had passed.
There were wild reels that set half the room dancing, a sight that was as terrifying as it was amazing; the crowd moved in perfect unison as if choreographed for some Busby Berkeley movie, yet they were as silent as the grave; it was eerie yet hypnotic. And then there were sad songs that made Ruth want to weep on the spot, yearning ballads that reminded her of her father, others that forced her to probe the feelings she had for Church. She fought the urge to hug him, though it brought tears to her eyes.
And Church was lost in thoughts of Marianne, of times frittered in the belief they could be picked up in the future, in thoughts of guilt at what he had done to Laura and Niamh; and then, once they had dissipated, at Ruth beside him. But before he had a chance to turn to her, the tempo increased and another emotion washed everything else away.
The food and drink came in a never-ending stream. Once they had eaten their fill, another dish materialised to tempt them, and when they certainly could eat no more, there was still wine, and more wine.
During a lull while the band members refreshed themselves with a drink, Ruth rose from her chair and hurried over to them. They drew in close around her as she spoke in low tones, their faces at first curious, then intrigued. When she retook her seat, Church asked, "What was that all about?" but she dismissed him with a wave.
He got his answer once the band started up again. Although the tone was oddly distorted, the song was unmistakable: "Fly Me to the Moon." Each note was filled with meaning, of his old life, certainly, but more importantly, and surprisingly, of the time at the pub on Dartmoor when he had performed karaoke with Ruth and Laura in a few moments of pure, unadulterated fun. He looked over to her, felt a surge of warmth at what he saw in her smile: she had remembered what he had said about never hearing Sinatra again.
"I hummed it to them," she whispered. "They picked it up straight away."
What he felt in that instant, he tried to blame on the drink or the music, but he knew he would not be able to deny it, even in the light of the next morning. He put his hand on the back of hers, but it didn't begin to express what he was feeling.
"You know," he said, mesmerised by the moment that felt like a lifetime, "these days everything is so much more vital." He was rambling, drunk. "This is what life should be. Meaning in everything. Importance in everything."
She smiled, said nothing; so much more assured. How could he not feel for her? He leaned forward, closed his eyes, savoured the anticipated moment as if he had already tasted it.
This is the time. This is everything. The words burst in his head unbidden, meaningless, yet filled with meaning. "It's like I'm on drugs." He could feel the bloom of her breath on his lips.
"I am the Messenger. The Message here is very clear." The voice was a blast of cold wind, freezing the moment. Church looked up at the tattered rag-figure Cormorel had called the Walpurgis, a sucking core of darkness, too much for one space. There was something so alien about it, Church's skin crawled; in the back of his head a worm of terror began to wriggle.
Cormorel had been involved in an intense, whispered conversation with Baccharus and the Walpurgis's arrival had taken him by surprise. He turned sharply, his face hard. Church hadn't seen that expression on any of the Tuatha De Danann before; he had the face of someone with something to hide.
"Away with you, Dark One." Cormorel waved his hand dismissively. "We have no time for your shadowy discourses."
The Walpurgis began to back away, until Church said, "Wait. Who are you?"
"I am the Messenger." The voice came from everywhere and nowhere.
"He is a dismal leech," Cormorel said. "Nothing more."
"A leech?" Ruth's brow had knitted; Church could tell she was sensing something too.
"The Walpurgis reaches into heads and pulls out dreams." Cormorel made a snapping motion with his fingers. "A distasteful trait, even by the low standards of his fellow travellers."
"You have a very contemptuous view of your fellow sentient beings, Cormorel," Church noted sardonically.
Cormorel eyed him, aloof. "All are beneath us." It was announced as a statement of fact, with no obvious arrogance.
Church was unable to pierce the gloom falling from the brim of the Walpurgis's hat; there were only those hot-coal eyes, unpleasant in their intensity. "You said you have a message?"
The Walpurgis nodded his head slowly. "But first there is something within you which should be examined."
"Within me?"
"A dream." A bony finger snaked towards Church's forehead. Instinctively Church drew back, his skin starting to crawl.
"You want to pull out my dream?"
"Did you know," Cormorel said icily, "the Walpurgis eats the souls of the dying?"
Church ignored him. There was something about the Walpurgis that made him feel queasy; it was so alien he couldn't begin to judge its trustworthiness. Perhaps this was how it preyed on its victims.
"All have dreams hidden away that could change the way they live their lives," the Walpurgis said in its rustling voice. "It is the nature of existence to obscure the important. A game it plays with us. The finding is often part of the lesson."