She knew she was wearing decent clothes. They were clean and well cut and probably expensive, which would tally with the idea that she was the niece of a Lord. She knew what she looked like – there was a little mirror in her pocket. But despite the clothing and the mirror, she had no money, not a single golden coin. (Why did she think of gold rather than silver or copper? She filed the fact away for future explanation.) Perhaps she was a pauper who’d stolen the clothing, but somehow she didn’t think so: it fitted her too well. She thought it might be tailored, in which case it could be even more expensive than it looked. So someone had taken her money, along with any clues to her identity.
But there were some things they couldn’t take away. The skin of her hands was pale, soft and smooth. There was no dirt beneath the fingernails. These were not the hands of a labourer. These were not the hands of a merchant or an artisan or a gardener. These were pampered hands. The niece of a Lord. She found herself staring at her feet. She had dainty feet – faerie feet, her father used to call them – encased in fashionable green leather shoes. She tried to remember where she’d bought those shoes, then suddenly focused on the thought that had passed almost unnoticed through her head. That thought brought a sudden surge of excitement. Her father once told her she had faerie feet! She remembered her father!
Except she didn’t. The excitement ebbed. She could not remember his face or who he was, or anything about him, only that one remark; and she couldn’t even remember when he had made it. Perhaps yesterday, perhaps long ago. She felt sad she could not remember his face, but at least she had a father, whoever he was. A father who remarked on the size of her feet. Did she have a mother? No picture emerged in answer to the question, no comment about her feet; or anything else. Did she have a home? Nothing. She thought instinctively of gold, she wore expensive clothes and shoes, her hands showed little sign of work… she was a rich girl (but one without money) who had faerie feet and pretty shoes and well-cut clothes and no other memory about herself.
Mella entered a clearing, but felt immediately exposed and headed out of it at once, taking a narrow pathway that carried her back into the shelter of the trees. She found herself jogging beside a stream that widened to a narrow river, then the river ceased to follow her path and disappeared. After a moment she heard a steady roaring sound that blocked out any other noise. It grew louder and louder until she emerged on the shore of a lake fed by a magnificent waterfall.
The lake shore was even worse than the clearing in the forest – far too exposed for safety. Mella turned back immediately and almost walked into the girl.
The girl was standing on the path only yards away, any sound of her approach masked by the noise of the waterfall. She was about Mella’s age and build. She stood quite still, her face in shadow, but obviously staring directly at Mella herself. Two words sprang at once to Mella’s mind: Feral Faerie. Or Forest Faerie if she was concerned about being polite. This had to be a Forest Faerie. Were Forest Faeries dangerous? Her memory was vague on that point, but this one didn’t seem to be armed and at least she wasn’t one of Hairstreak’s guards.
Mella made a snap judgment and decided (for the moment) not to run. She too froze into immobility, thought about it for an instant, then called hesitantly, ‘Who are you?’
The girl stepped forward so that her face was in full sunlight. ‘Hello, Mella,’ she said softly, using the name Aisling had called out as she dived through the carriage. ‘Don’t be frightened.’
But Mella was frightened. Mella was suddenly very frightened indeed. She turned and ran. She broke from the trees and ran along the lake shore with the roar of the waterfall pounding her ears. But the girl ran with her, no more than a pace or two behind and there was no shaking her. Eventually, breathlessly, Mella stopped and turned. ‘Get away from me!’ she screamed. Out from the trees, in the full light of the sun, there was no mistaking it. The girl who followed Mella was Mella. Mella was being chased by herself, had been caught by herself. ‘Why do you call me Mella?’ she asked wildly.
‘Because that’s your name – don’t you remember?’ Mella said. She smiled. ‘It’s mine too.’
‘I’ve had my memory wiped with lethe. I don’t know who I am.’
‘You’re Faeman Princess Culmella of the Faerie Realm,’ Mella told her. ‘Mella for short. Your mother is Queen Holly Blue. Your father is Consort Majesty King Henry. Now do you remember?’
Mella shook her head. ‘No,’ she said miserably.
‘Take my word for it,’ Mella told her.
‘Who are you – my doppleganger?’ Mella asked. She knew that dopplegangers could be created or called, but if your doppleganger turned up spontaneously, it meant you were going to die.
Mella shook her head. ‘I’m your sister,’ she said. ‘I’m your twin. Uncle Hairstreak made me. I’m your clone.’
Uncle Hairstreak? The man she instinctively mistrusted. ‘What’s a clone?’ she asked.
‘I think it’s a spell from the Analogue World.’
‘They don’t use magic in the Analogue World.’
Mella shrugged. ‘Maybe it’s a science then. Uncle Hairstreak used it to make me from a lock of your hair. He definitely used magic to make me grow. I’m you, Mella. All the cells of my body are your cells. I’m Mella too.’
‘You’re Mella II?’
‘He calls me Mella.’ Mella II reached out and took her hand. This time Mella did not try to run away. ‘He plans for me to take your place, so obviously he calls me Mella. Our Uncle Hairstreak is a wicked man.’
Take my place? Aloud, Mella asked, ‘Is he really our uncle?’
‘He’s really your great-uncle by marriage, once removed. His sister was married to your mother’s father before he married your mother’s mother. I suppose you could say he’s my father, since he made me, but he’s always encouraged me to call him uncle. Besides, if he’s my father, I think that would make you my mother.’
‘Your mother?! ’
Mella II shrugged. ‘It was your hair.’
‘I don’t want to be your mother.’
‘Neither do I. I’d rather you were my sister.’
Mella said, ‘I don’t understand this; not any of it.’ Part of the problem was her missing memory, but she suspected she would still have problems understanding even if she remembered everything. But at least her fear had nearly gone now.
‘You don’t have to understand. You just have to trust me. But I’ll try to help you understand.’
They had begun to walk slowly, hand-in-hand along the side of the lake. Now her initial panic was dying down, Mella discovered she trusted Mella II. It was an instinctive thing, like her mistrust of Uncle Hairstreak and Aunt Aisling.
‘Is Aisling really my aunt?’
Mella II nodded. ‘You do have an aunt called Aisling. She’s your father’s sister.’
‘I don’t like her.’
‘Neither does he, apparently.’
‘Do you know my father?’
Mella II shook her head. ‘I’ve not met him yet. I’ve not met anybody of importance yet, except Uncle Hairstreak and some servants and now you. But I know a great deal about everybody because Uncle Hairstreak thinks I’m stupid.’
‘Why? Why should he think you’re stupid?’
‘Because I was stupid when he made me. I didn’t grow up the way you did. He cloned me – cloned you, I mean – then used a growth spell. So I had no childhood. I jumped from birth to teens. I looked like you, but I was just a shell. He used an educational enchantment programme to give me the formal information I needed – about our mother and father and the Palace and so on – but that didn’t amount to life experience. It was difficult because he had to keep me secret, so he couldn’t turn me loose in the world. But he let me roam through his estate and deal with servants and so forth – people he really trusted – so I would be at ease. He never thought I’d read his private papers and find out what he was planning.’