Neverfell flung off her leather apron, and hurried on the jacket with all the buttons or near enough. She had barely had time to make herself presentable when she heard the door’s string of bells ring to announce the arrival of Madame Vesperta Appeline, the celebrated Facesmith.
Facesmiths could only be found in Caverna. The outer world had no need of them. It was only in the labyrinthine underground city of Caverna that babies did not smile.
In the overground world, babies that stared up at their mother’s faces gradually started to work out that the two bright stars they could see above them were eyes like their own, and that the broad curve was a mouth like theirs. Without even thinking about it, they would curve their mouths the same way, mirroring their mothers’ smiles in miniature. When they were frightened or unhappy, they would know at once how to screw up their faces and bawl. Caverna babies never did this, and nobody knew why. They looked solemnly at the face above them, and saw eyes, nose, mouth, but they did not copy its expressions. There was nothing wrong with their features, but somehow one of the tiny silver links in the chain of their souls was missing. They had to be forced to learn expressions one at a time, slowly and painfully, otherwise they remained blank as eggs.
These carefully taught expressions were the Faces. Those at the cheapest crèches learned only a handful of Faces, all suitable for their station, for what need had they of more? Richer families sent their children to better nurseries where they would learn two or three hundred Faces. Most Cavernans spent their lives making do with the Faces they had learned in infancy, but the affluent elite sometimes hired Facesmiths, specialist Face-designers, to teach them new expressions. Among the fashionable elite, a new, beautiful or interesting Face could cause more of a stir than a string of black pearls or a daring hat.
This was Neverfell’s first opportunity to meet a Facesmith, and her heart was punching against her ribs with excitement as she sprinted back to her master.
‘Can I be the one to unlock the door?’ she asked, aware that she might be pushing her luck.
Cheesemaster Grandible was always careful to hide his front door keys away from Neverfell’s curious grasp, and only dug them out when a visitor was imminent. On this occasion he tossed her the great ring without a word, and she ran back to the door, her fingers thrilled by the cold weight of the keys.
‘Only let her in if she’s alone – and take a sniff before you open that door!’ barked Grandible from down the corridor. Cheesemaster Grandible always responded to any outside intrusion as a potential invasion, even when the visitors were nothing but delivery boys.
Her fingers clumsy with excitement, Neverfell pulled out the waxed cloth that plugged each of the locks to keep out poison gas and glisserblinds, the tiny sightless snakes that sometimes slithered through rocky fissures using their uncanny sense of smell to search for something to bite. She unlocked the seven locks, pulled back thirty-four of the thirty-five bolts, then obediently halted, and stood on tiptoe to look through the goggle-glass spyhole set in the door.
In the little passageway beyond was the figure of a solitary woman. Her waist was so slender it looked as though it might snap. She was dressed in a dark green gown with a silver-beaded stomacher, and a lace-adorned standing collar. Her mahogany-coloured hair was all but lost amid a forest of feathers, most iridescent green and black, which made her look taller than she was. Neverfell’s first thought was that the lady must have come straight from some wonderful party.
A black silk kerchief was wrapped around Madame Appeline’s throat, so that her pale face was thrown into relief. Neverfell decided instantly that it was the most beautiful face she had ever seen. It was heart-shaped and perfectly smooth. As the lady waited, various expressions twinkled in and out of existence, a strange and charming change from Grandible’s perpetual glower. Her eyes were long, slanted and green, her brows utterly black. Only a little cleft in the chin prevented her face from being perfectly regular.
Remembering Grandible’s instructions, Neverfell opened a small hidden hatch, and took a quick careful sniff of the air. Her sharp cheesemaker’s nose picked up only hair powder, haste and a hint of violets. The lady was wearing perfume, but not Perfume; a pleasing scent but not one that could be used to enslave minds.
Neverfell dragged back the last bolt, heaved on the great iron ring and pulled the door open. Upon seeing her, the woman hesitated, and then softened slightly into a look of politely amused surprise, tinged with kindness.
‘Can I speak to Cheesemaster Moormoth Grandible? I believe he is expecting me?’
Neverfell had never been looked at quite so gently before, and her mouth dried up instantly.
‘Yes . . . I . . . He . . . he’s in the reception room.’ This was her golden moment to steal a few words with the Facesmith, and apparently she had forgotten how to form sentences. She felt her face grow hot under the mask as she glanced furtively about her. ‘I . . . I wanted to ask you something—’
‘Neverfell!’ came the gruff bark from the reception room.
Neverfell abruptly remembered her master’s instructions. No gabbling. That probably meant he did not want her talking at all.
She hesitated, then bent a neat little bow, and stepped back, miming an invitation to enter. No friendly chatter today. This was a guest to treat well and attentively, but not one to make too comfortable or welcome. So Neverfell waited for Madame Appeline to enter, fastened the door behind her and then showed her towards the reception room, a dapper little mannequin with white eyes and a silver smile.
The light in the passage was dim, a sure sign of a shortage of people. Just as people counted upon the little carnivorous flytrap plants in the trap-lanterns to draw in stale, breathed air and turn it into fresh, breathable air, so the traps needed people to provide a supply of stale air for them to breathe. If there were not enough people around, they ran out of stale air, turned off their glow and went to sleep. The little flytraps themselves had the blind, dappled, pallid look of toadstools, and seemed to be yawning their blind mouths out of boredom rather than the hope of luring in fat cave moths with their murky, yellowish light.
Fortunately Madame Appeline followed neatly behind Neverfell, without showing any temptation to wander off or touch anything. Grandible distrusted visitors, so by now all his booby-traps would have been set. Doors would be locked and their handles smeared with a paralysing veneer of Poric Hare-Stilton just in case. Besides such precautions, there were also the ordinary hazards of a cheesemaker’s domain. Open the wrong door and you might find yourself faced with shelves of Spitting Jesses, rattling on their dove-feather beds and sending up a fine spray of acid through the pores in their rinds, or some great mossy round of Croakspeckle, the very fumes of which could melt a man’s brain like so much butter.
The cosy antechamber that Grandible used as a reception room was the only place into which visitors were ever permitted. Here at least the reek of cheese was slightly fainter than in the rest of Grandible’s domain. As Neverfell showed her in, the Facesmith drew herself up and changed manner completely. Suddenly she was grandiose and glittering, and seemed to have gained a few inches in height.
‘Cheesemaster! I had heard rumours that you were still alive. How delightful to be able to confirm them!’ The Facesmith swept delicately into the room, the longest feathers of her headdress kissing the roof of the antechamber. Peeling off her yellow gloves, she settled herself on the appointed guest chair, a carefully judged eight sword-lengths from Grandible’s great wooden seat. ‘After such a dramatic and complete disappearance, half my friends were convinced you had despaired of life and done something ghastly to yourself.’
Grandible examined the cuff of his long, grey greeting-visitors coat. His expression did not change, but perhaps for a second it deepened a little.
‘Tea,’ was all he said. The cuffs did not respond, but presumably they knew the instruction was meant for Neverfell.
It was agony leaving the conversation at such a moment, just as it s
eemed Neverfell might finally learn something of Grandible’s reasons for withdrawing from Court. The only aristocracy of Caverna were the Craft, the makers of true delicacies that crossed the invisible line between the mind-blowing and the miraculous. As a maker of True Cheeses, Grandible was a member of the Craft class, but he had never told Neverfell why he chose not to take up his rightful place at Court.
In their rocky little kitchen, Neverfell hauled on a wall lever to summon hot water. Somewhere far above in the furnace caverns a little bell would be ringing. After a minute or two the water pipes started to hum, whine and judder. Neverfell tugged on her protective gloves and turned the grey and scaly tap, releasing a torrent of steaming water into the teapot.
Neverfell made tea, scalding herself in her haste, and by the time she re-emerged guest and host were mid-conversation. When Neverfell placed a cup of peppermint tea and a plate of dates on the table beside Madame Appeline, the latter paused mid-flow to flash Neverfell a small, sweet ‘thank you’ smile.
‘. . . an extremely good customer,’ the Facesmith went on, ‘but also a close friend, which is why I promised to try to help him. You can understand his worry, surely? This is such an important diplomatic occasion, and the poor young man does not want to disgrace himself in front of the Grand Steward and the rest of the Court. Can you blame my friend for wanting to make sure that he has all the right Faces prepared?’
‘Yes.’ Grandible’s blunt nails tapped at the arm of his chair, near the catch for the hidden compartment. ‘I can. Fools like that keep the Face market running, even though everybody knows that two hundred Faces are enough for anybody. Damn it, ten would do.’
‘Or . . . two?’ Madame Appeline narrowed her long slanting eyes. Her smile was knowing, but there was a hint of warmth and sympathy beneath the mockery. ‘Cheesemaster, I know that it is almost a matter of principle with you, but you should actually be careful wearing the same Face day in and day out. It marks the countenance. Some day you may want to use one of your other Faces and suddenly realize that your face muscles can no longer remember them.’
Grandible stared at her, his face dour as a gibbet. ‘I find this one very suitable for most situations and people I encounter.’ He sighed. ‘I fail to see why you want to talk to me, Facesmith. If this whelp wants a hundred new expressions so he can react differently to every shade of green he sees, then go ahead and sell them to him.’
‘If it was a matter of shades of green, then, yes, that would be an easy matter. Mock all you like, but In Contemplation of Verdigris and An Apprehension of Apple Boughs are very popular right now. No, the problem is the banquet. If he wants to prove he is a true judge of all that is fine, he must be able to react the right way to every dish. Are you getting a glimmer of my motives now, dear Cheesemaster?’
‘More of a glint.’
‘I already have him primed with the right Faces for all four Wines, the songbird jelly, the soup, the pie, the cordial, the ices and each of the sugared fruits. But your Stackfalter Sturton will be making its debut. How can I devise the right Face for something that I have never experienced?’
‘That particular cheese was commissioned by the Grand Steward. It is his property.’
‘But there are always broken cheeses?’ persisted Madame Appelline. ‘Failed cheeses? Scraps? Spills? Crumbs? My friend would only need the tiniest crumb. Would you not be willing to spare even that? He would be most grateful.’
‘No.’ The answer was very soft and final, like a candle dying. Madame Appeline was very quiet for a long time, and when she spoke again she sounded very serious. Her smile was melancholy.
‘Dear Cheesemaster, has it never occurred to you that some day – however improbable it may seem to you – you might wish to return to Court? That you might need to come back to Court? Hiding out here may feel safe, but it is not. It offers your enemies a thousand chances to move against you, whisper in the right ears. It makes you vulnerable, and if you lose your standing some dark hour you will not be safe even here. And you have posterity –’ she directed a fleeting glance at Neverfell – ‘to consider.’
‘I’m sure you mean something by that.’ Grandible’s hands were fidgeting on the arms of his chair, and Neverfell suddenly realized that he was nervous, more nervous than she had ever seen him.
‘I mean that sooner or later you and your protégée are going to need allies, and for years you have been doing your best to push away everybody who tries to make friendly overtures. What if you have to deal with the Court again? How will you manage with no friends and two Faces?’
‘I survived last time,’ muttered Grandible.
‘And perhaps you could again,’ Madame Appeline continued quite calmly, ‘or you could let me help you. I know a lot of people, and could make introductions. I could even make a “new look” for you, to make the whole thing easier.’ She put her heart-shaped head on one side, and scrutinized Grandible through her long, green eyes. ‘Yes, I think a touch of Twinkle or Wry Charm would suit you very well. Or perhaps World Weary, with a Hint of Sadness and a Core of Basic Integrity. Perhaps even Amused Shrewdness, with a Well of Deeper Wisdom? Cheesemaster, I know that you have a prejudice against my trade, but the truth is I can be a good friend, and I am really quite a useful person to know.’
‘Biscuits,’ said Grandible with venom.
In the kitchen, Neverfell’s haste tripped her on a rug-edge, sprawled her over a chair and forced her to spend maddening extra minutes picking the spilt biscuits up from the floor and flicking the specks off them. She arrived back in the antechamber just in time to see that the conversation was over. With a sting of desperation she observed the Facesmith gliding back towards the great door with its thirty-five bolts, her expression a mild glow of wry amusement, regret, sympathy and resolution.
Breathless, Neverfell ran to catch up with her, then dropped her deepest bow. She felt the Facesmith’s smile tickle over her as gently and iridescently as the headdress feathers had touched the ceiling. Neverfell’s heart lurched at the thought of breaking her orders from Master Grandible, but there would never be another chance to speak with a Facesmith, and this chance was slipping away.
‘My lady!’ she whispered urgently. ‘Wait! Please! I . . . you said you could make Faces that would make Master Grandible look good, and I just wanted to know . . .’ She took a deep breath, and asked the question that had been buzzing around in her mind for months. ‘Could . . . could you make a Face for somebody that has none worth the name? I mean . . . someone so ugly they must be hid?’
For a few seconds the Facesmith regarded Neverfell’s mask, her expression perfectly motionless. Then it softened into a gleaming sweetness, like a droplet welling at the tip of a thawing icicle. She reached out a hand towards the mask, apparently intending to remove it, but Neverfell flinched back. She was not yet ready for this beautiful woman to see whatever lay beneath.
‘You really won’t let me see?’ whispered Madame Appeline. ‘Very well, then – I have no intention of upsetting you.’ She glanced up the corridor, then leaned forward to whisper.
‘I have had many people come to me who were called ugly, and every single time I have been able to design them a Face that makes them pleasant to the eye. It is never hopeless. Whatever you may have been told, nobody needs to be ugly.’
Neverfell felt her eyes tingle, and had to swallow hard. ‘I’m sorry Master Grandible was so rude. If it had been up to me . . .’
‘Thank you.’ There were peacock-coloured flecks in Madame Appeline’s eyes, as if two green gems had been carefully fractured a hundred times. ‘I believe you. What was your name again – did Master Grandible call you Neverfell?’
Neverfell nodded.
‘Good to meet you, Neverfell. Well, I shall remember that I may have one young friend in these cheese tunnels, even if your master is determined to distrust everyone that belongs to the Court.’ Madame Appeline glanced back towards the reception room. ‘Look after him well. He is more vulnerable than he thinks.
It is dangerous to lock oneself away and lose track of what is happening outside.’
‘I wish I could go out into the city and discover things for him,’ whispered Neverfell. Her reasons were not completely unselfish, though, and she knew the yearning in her voice had betrayed her.
‘Do you never leave your master’s tunnels?’ Madame Appeline’s black eyebrows rose gracefully as Neverfell shook her head. Her tone was slightly scandalized. ‘Never? But why on earth not?’
Neverfell’s hands moved defensively back to her mask, and the unloved face it hid.
‘Oh.’ Madame Appeline gave a soft sigh of realization. ‘Do you really mean to say that he keeps you locked up in here because of your looks? But that is terrible! No wonder you want a new Face!’ She reached out one yellow-gloved hand and gently stroked the cheek of Neverfell’s mask with a faint rasp of velvet. ‘Poor child. Well, do not despair. Perhaps you and I will turn out to be friends, and if so perhaps some day I will have a chance to make a Face for you. Would that make you happy?’
Neverfell nodded mutely, her chest full to bursting.
‘In the meanwhile,’ the Facesmith went on, ‘you can always send a message to me. My tunnels are not far from the Samphire District, where Tytheman’s Slink meets the Hurtles.’
A bell rang in the reception room, and Neverfell knew that Grandible was becoming impatient. Reluctantly, she unbolted the door again and heaved it open, so that Madame Appeline could drift out.
‘Goodbye, Neverfell.’
In the fleeting second before the door closed between them, Neverfell glimpsed something that made her heart stumble in its pace. Madame Appeline was watching her with a Face she had never seen before. It was unlike anything from the many Facesmith catalogues Neverfell had treasured over the years, nor was it smooth and beautiful like the other Faces Madame Appeline had worn during her visit. It contained a smile, but one with a world of weariness behind the brightness, and sadness beyond the kindness. There was something a little haggard around the eyes as well, that spoke of sleeplessness, patience and pain.