UnleashingTheNightmare

From IMiA

Phoebe enters the toyshop and stands for a moment, blinking, looking around for a counter.

A counter? Good luck in finding it. When Phoebe reaches what she had surmised would bear some resemblance to a regular shop, she falls in the middle of an architectural explosion: a shockingly haphazard semi-open structure, a circus-like cave-like tower-like puzzle of metal shards, stone slabs and wooden beams. Picture something between an overgrown workshop and the Amber castle's very attics: full of wonderful junk, some of it dusty and some glimmering, some of it appealing and other quite appalling, some of it gliding, crawling, scampering, squeezing, squeaking, growling, babbling, bouncing, and . . . a few are even disquietingly silent and woefully inert. No trace of a shopkeeper anywhere, but a few dirty urchins are gathered around a whizzing something. Beyond the back of a gangling youth in stained coveralls, you finally get a glimpse of a kid so small he (or she) must have crawled out of his (or her) cradle to play with what looks like an oversized spinning top, throwing flashes of colors all around. These arrows of rainbow light rebound harmlessly against the walls, sometimes drawing phantasmal figures, or exploding in puffs of sparks, unless they get trapped in tiny finger cages by the surrounding kids.

Phoebe stands on the threshhold, her blue eyes widening with delight. Fair even by Begman standards, she is dressed in a rather dashing outfit — a dark blue jacket cut in Begman miliatry fashion, with skirts beneath of a blue rather paler than her eyes.

"Oh ... oooh," she breathes, her eyes darting from one area of the shop to another, drinking it all in.

(Wait. Was that wall there last time she looked?)

Phoebe blinks, and looks again. And then she rubs her eyes — as her smile of delight grows wider and wider.

Without hesitation she heads for the group of urchins watching the spinning top, and she spends a long moment staring at it, her face as rapt as theirs.

"What is it?" she asks the gangling youth. "How does it do that?"

The youth answers absent-mindedly, from below a thick bush of russet hair, "Oh, it's quite simple actually. The core is a dream bubble from the Moon City, in which some fairy dust was later collected. The Arden kind, of course, the real thing. The bubble is enclosed in a gelfling song crystal for protection, which was the real tricky part. Aside from this core, the spinning top's empty, if you except fragments of an old Rebman mirror covering the inner edge. The outer edge is made of thinly sliced moonstone for translucency as well as to help with the spin, and is otherwise reinforced with orichalcum, a lot like a stained glass window. You need to get it whirling manually, but a side effect of the fairy dust is that it'll then keep going as long as there's someone to believe in it."

Phoebe nods earnestly, as though she understands more than one word in ten of this explanation, but her lips shape some of the more unusual words as though rehearsing to produce them at a later date ... "Gelfling ... translucency ... oricihalcum ...."

As he concludes, she says rather breathlessly, "Oh, *indeed* I *do* believe in it."

And such is her fervour that the spinning top may well have discovered the secret of perpetual motion ...

With Phoebe’s attention focused on it, the spinning top has started levitating. Which, after all, may be perfectly normal. Still, from the corner of her eyes, Phoebe notices that the lanky youth suddenly seems more aware of her presence. The other kids are getting more excited and the toddler actually touches the small flying saucer, though without interrupting thus its mid-air whirling motion.

Phoebe, awed, stretches out her hand too — and then remembers the disaster she caused last time she did something like that, and snatches her hand back.

. . . drawing thus what may be a raised eyebrow from the lanky youth, though it is a little hard to tell under the unruly russet of his hair.

But she seems less interested in gleaning any answer than in staring at it, her fair head moving in rhythm with the mechanism. It seems that she has wholly forgotten whatever errand has brought her to the shop in the first place — although a clue or two may be found in the soft leather satchel she is carrying over one shoulder.

Lacking a finger cage, she stretches out her cupped hands in an attempt to capture one of the tiny phantasmal figures, but very, very gently.

The semi-coherent spark only tickles, but otherwise bounces harmlessly against Phoebe’s fingers, taking shapes and colors vaguely mirroring her personality and present mood.

A rich rose pink, then — and flecked with an opalescent shimmer that gives off a warm glow that hesitates between being green ... and blue ... and mauve ... And then decides to be all of them, after all. Phoebe laughs with the sheer pleasure of it, and then looks up, her face glowing not entirely from the reflected life.

"Oh, it's *wonderful*!" she says. "I've never seen anything half so pretty!"

"Sometimes beauty truly is in the eye of the beholder," comments the youth while standing up. In Phoebe’s hands, the glowing opalescence explodes into petals of pink, green, blue and mauve, which escape her grasp and seem to fall twirling towards the sun, slowing melting in its white light.

Phoebe tilts her head back, rapt, the demure hat that was perched on top of her curls sliding off and tumbling, unnoticed, to the ground.

One of the kids, a small boy on the verge of puberty dressed in nothing but rope-belted pants and a wild mane of dirty black hair, seizes the hat with practiced dexterity.

She gazes up until every last flake of light has faded entirely, and then a few moments longer, as though willing them to return. Then she looks back at the youth and smiles at him, the warm friendly smile of someone who has not yet learned that smiles must be measured and granted as favours.

_[And Kit allowed such a character to enter his game? Such a cruel man.]_

_[Heh. There are great pleasures to be gained in playing an ingénue in a truly devious game]_

"That was so splendid," she confides. "Now I feel ashamed about bringing my trinkets to the toymaker."

Ma'am, it has toys in that bag?" the small black-haired boy asks. With one hand, he points at Phoebe's satchel; with the other, he hands the fallen hat back to her.

"Yes, I do," she says. "But nothing to compare with *this*. Just some trifles from Begma I brought back as gifts for my friends."

Phoebe's "trifles" seem to arouse the boy's curiosity . . . .

She looks back at the spinning top and the enraptured children.

"It must be wonderful to be able to make people so happy," she says.

This time the tall youth seems ready to answer, but at that precise moment, a well-dressed gentleman rushes past, snatches the hat from the fingers of the small boy, shoving him to the ground. He then proceeds to hand her hat back to Phoebe, after having conspicuously cleaned it from the dirt accumulated through both its fall and its mishandling by the thieving boy. The golden-locked newcomer smiles a perfect smile from under a tall hat of purplish vair, assorted to his long coat. "Here you are, milady."

"Thank you," says Phoebe, rewarding him with another of those sunny smiles. "But, Sir, you were a little inopportune, I think. This was my *first* rescuer." And she kneels down, quite heedless of what the dusty floor is doing to the pale blue material of her skirt, and helps the young boy up. "Thank you for saving my hat," she tells him. "You shall have a penny — or perhaps a piece of sugar cane if I have any in my pocket." She looks to see — it appears that Phoebe is quite unconscious that there might be anything unfashionable about carrying a few sweets in her pocket.

_[Oh, there should be some fashionable candies, if made of either licorice or very dark rock sugar and shaped as roses. Unless I'm one fashion late from reading the IMiA online notes!]_

_[Phoebe has some of those - and also a delicious Begman nougat, dark and chocolaty in texture, and studied with almonds and cherries, wrapped in wax paper squares that bear the imprint of a fashionable chocolatier in Begma]_

Then she rises to her feet again, reattaches the hat to her curls (it slips to a charming angle as though no hat Phoebe places on her head would dare to do anything else), and smiles again at the well-dressed gentleman and the youth.

"I could offer you a sweetie to for your kindness," she says to the former, clearly taking the shoving of the child to be no more than an unfortunate over-enthusiasm to serve her (it is possible that Phoebe has encountered such a thing before), "but if you would *really* earn my gratitude, perhaps you would tell me where I might find the toymaker?"

The boy opens his mouth, but the gentleman is first to speak: "Ah, our meeting was fated, milady. I have the privilege of being counted among Elyssa Darcy's closest friends and she crafts the most wonderful toys, the only ones worthy of your attention. If you will allow me to guide you away from those . . . parts . . . it would be my pleasure to introduce you."

"How very kind," says Phoebe. "And if the toymaker here is unable to meet my requirements, then I shall be delighted to give her my custom. But I think it would only be polite to ask him, now that I'm here, don't you?"

At last at loss for words, the young gentleman's sole answer is a distinct reddening of his handsome facial features.

It is to be observed that M'lle Frewin has a most determined little chin.

It is to be observed that the courteous gentleman has temporarily lost his countenance.

She turns to the gangling youth, and the smile reappears. "But you know all about the workings of these wonderful things. Are you the journeyman? Where is your master?"

"Ah yes," the gentleman smiles again, while rummaging through his large coat pocket. "Here," he adds, throwing an Amber crown, "Go get the . . . toymaker."

Phoebe's little brow creases in a frown. Clearly she is not appreciative of such disdainful behaviour.

The youth considers the coin for a moment, then actually squats down to retrieve it. He walks towards Phoebe, or rather towards the small boy still standing where she helped him get to his feet, and hands the coin to him. The boy jerks away, as if threatened by a dagger. Looking at his feet, he mutters: "Mum she says we're no beggar."

The youth smiles in answer, "And she's quite right. But I found this piece of metal on the floor of my workshop, where it was of no use. Bring it to your mum and request in my name that she accepts it as a manner of thanks for the chestnut jam you brought me last week."

The boy seems to process the words in his head, then finally accepts the coin and, with a quick bow to Phoebe, begins to dash away.

"Chestnut jam?" exclaims Phoebe. "Oh ... my favourite! Do you think she could make some for me too? Then you could bring it here, and I could collect it!"

Phoebe takes an Amber crown from a slightly threadbare coin-purse (with a faded Begman crest slightly untidily embroidered upon it) and offers it to the boy.

The boy nods his understanding but scampers away before Phoebe has had time to proffer the coin.

The youth straightens up, "So then, what owes me the pleasure?" The smartness in his voice, in distinct contrast to his former attitude, appears directed to the now silent gentleman, though he then turns his eyes away from him and towards Phoebe, waiting for an answer.

Phoebe considers him with interest, her head tilted now a little on one side, with bright, birdlike interest. The hat, fortunately, decides to stay in place.

"I think," she says helpfully, "that the phrase you are looking for is 'to what do I owe this pleasure?' Is Thari not your first tongue?

"Sixth or seventh. Can't really remember now," he answers with a bashful smile. His hand travels nervously through the thick russet of his hair, and Phoebe finally gets a glimpse of his eyes, a brief sparkle of blue, green and silver. For an instant, it reminds her of the Amber sea, of a sudden ray of sunlight breaking on a passing wave. Then it is gone, hidden again behind the autumn curtain of his hair.

"But why I've come," she goes on, "is because of the eggs." She indicates, with a gentle hand, the satchel she still holds. "The mechanism on the one for Lady Patrice seems to be faulty, and I was *so* hoping someone could repair it. One doesn't want to give a *shoddy* gift — at least, I don't."

"Well, I can't say I'll have the time, but I can at least have a first look," he states somewhat less shyly while leading the way through the wondrous shambles of his workshop. Great ladies of Amber might have stiffened at the implied slight in those words. Phoebe, however, merely nods understandingly.

The golden-locked gentleman at Phoebe's side did stiffen.

Maybe he's a great lady.

From the corner of her left eye, Phoebe catches the scurrying shape of a cockroach, and from the corner of her right eye, she notices that the well-dressed gentleman is tagging along, staying pretty close to her. It becomes increasingly difficult to tell, though, is such closeness is motivated by his interest in Phoebe or by his obvious growing disquiet over their surroundings. He becomes especially agitated when a clockwork fairy flies by, which he tries but fails to squash.

Phoebe stops dead, and then turns and looks at him.

"Don't," she says sternly, regarding him with a slight frown and the expression of one who tells an inexperienced stranger not to behave disrespectfully in a place of worship.

Satisfied that this rebuke will be sufficient, she sails on in the toymaker's wake.

Though Phoebe does not take notice, the gentleman has frozen in place and fails to follow any further.

"Please, place the egg here," shows the youth. The small basin looks empty yet if the egg is placed inside it, it does not touch the bottom but floats as on some invisible liquid, one that Phoebe also fails to feel. "So, who made that egg and what is it supposed to do?"

"How fascinating," breathes Phoebe, gazing down into the bowl. Hastily she opens the satchel and lifts out the egg, unwrapping it carefully. It has been swathed, with its companion, in a soft cashmere shawl for its protection during the journey, for it is clearly a real egg, belonging to some large flightless bird — an ostrich perhaps. It is like the richly jewelled eggs that delight ladies at court so much but this, rather than being studded with precious jewels, has been exquisitely painted instead with a landscape scene, the base depicting some bucolic glade, while the top half depicts woods and an azure blue sky with puffy white clouds.

There is a band of gold around the centre; Phoebe leans forward and depresses a little catch and the egg opens around the centre, the pointed end lifting. Inside, the bottom half is hidden, presumably containing the mechanism. The upper half has concealed a rural scene — some sort of village celebration is going on, and tiny enamelled figures are dancing around a maypole with ribbons represented by strands of brightly coloured plaited silks, while a little village band plays a merry tune, and assorted villages look on, laughing and applauding the dancers. Behind them, stands the village inn and other cottages. The whole thing is tiny but exquisitely made, a little world in minature. Phoebe carefully depresses another catch and the band begins to play, their instruments swaying in perfect time; a merry tune rings out, but some of the high notes are so off that it makes one wince.

"That's the problem," says Phoebe. "I think it must have jarred on the sea voyage, for it was working perfectly when it left Mr Fennewald's studio! It was made by the Clockers of Begma, you see, and Mr Fennewald is the *best*."

She unravels the rest of the shawl and displays the partner egg. The exterior of this too contains the depiction of a rural scene, but Phoebe doesn't as yet open it, looking up at the toymaker with a smile.

"This is a wedding scene," she says. "And I got it for the Duchess of Carlisle who is my *greatest* friend in Amber. I thought a wedding scene would make her smile and remember her own, although I'm sure hers was much grander. But it's working *perfectly*, although you may look if you wish."

She directs a slightly admonitory look at the well-dressed gentleman. "Please don't touch," she says firmly. "It's very delicate."

She then realizes that she has lost her fervent new friend.

Phoebe bears this with equanimity — although she does cast a glance around to make sure he is not attempting to crush more clockwork fairies behind her back.

In the meanwhile, the youth swaps eggs before opening the second one with an uncanny instinct. After swapping them again, he ponders while letting his fingers drum on the side of the basin. A cockroach soon climbs onto the table and draws near the youth's finger, who points towards the egg. The cockroach climbs onto the egg; his bronze carapace opens and what appears to be tools smaller than needles start working on the egg. The youth frowns and then asks, without cracking a smile: "Has this Lady Patrice any talent as a singer?"

"I don't know," admits Phoebe. "She has a *lovely* speaking voice though, and she does most things *superbly*; she climbs like ... like ... " Clearly Phoebe is searching for a simile that would not be too unflattering to the lady and eventually supplies, "Well, like a *squirrel* - and you should see her fence!"

"Mh, yes. Fencing won't really help here, though. Well, we'll have to try . . . . Does she have long hair, at least?"

"I think so," says Phoebe a little doubtfully. "At least ... it was quite long when I saw her last. Although it was pinned up. But that was a year ago — I haven't seen her since."

"Well, if she does, one strand of hair should suffice. Otherwise I'll need a lock."

"All right," agrees Phoebe, amiable, but puzzled. "Why do you need it, though?"

"To replace a faulty spring, barely thicker that a hair. A jewel really, quite delicate, more even than this eggshell," Ethan absentmindedly comments, as his finger follows the shape of a painted cloud. "Of course, I'll have to suffuse this hair with . . . something . . . to coax it into the correct shape. At that point, I don't know what yet. Oh, actually . . . What kind of blade does this fencer of a lady favor?"

"Rapiers," said Phoebe. "She loves art too ... Must it be one of her hairs? Wouldn't one of mine suffice?"

Absently she pauses to push back a fair curl that has escaped its restraints and is tumbling down over her cheek.

"Oh, yours _too_. I just didn't feel necessary to mention that yet, since obviously, it's the easy part. The good news is that I think I can make it work to satisfaction without you having to bring me a rapier of hers too. But if you may, ask her who made her favorite weapon. Hairs from a discarded painting brush, an old favorite brush of hers, could help too, but I fear they'll be a little too short, even woven together into the longer hair. I still need to think about a binder . . . hmm . . ."

Phoebe nods, with every appearance of having understood more than one word in five of Ethan's speculations.

"I just want things to be as perfect as possible," she explains. "Because they are so very kind to me."

She watches for a little longer — and then a terrible thought seems to strike her.

"Do you think ... I mean ... I was thinking you would just take a look at the mechanism first before you started actually *repairing it* ... Because, you see, I don't have an *enormous* amount of money ... And I know you do work for the court and everything and are really the very *best* ... "

She gives a little gulp. "Is this going to be awfully expensive?" she concludes in a very small voice.

He blinks. "Actually, I don't remember having ever worked." He looks back at the egg. "But yes, I guess I can have expensive tastes, sometimes. So, did you come empty-handed?"

"Oh *no*," Phoebe assures him. "I have five gold crowns with me. Will ... will that be enough?"

She looks up at him anxiously.

His raised eyebrows fully disappear into the thick russet of his hair. "You mean, the kind of things I happen to find on the floor of my workshop?" he asks, referring to a recent event. "No, I already have some of those. Anything else?"

"I should give you one for the chestnut jam though," she adds conscientiously.

"It can wait," Ethan answers with a wave of the hand. "If his mother has pots ready, Peter is likely to bring back one or two."

Phoebe nods, giving consideration to the workshop and what the toymaker might like. From what she can see, the choice seems rather broad.

"I have some Begman nougat in my pockets," she ventures at least. "A lot of people say that it is *really* scrummy. It's the chocolaty kind. And I could bring more .... "

"Chocolaty, you say?" A spark has awakened in his eyes which he fails to suppress. "And Begman . . . Begman . . . Hm . . . Could I, well, submit a sample to a, ah, test?"

"Certainly," says Phoebe obligingly, and she reaches into the pocket of her stylish jacket.

It is something of a squeeze (stylish jackets being something close-fitting), but she pulls out three slightly squashed squares, wrapped in waxed paper — each of which bears the flourishing logo of 'Florian' in gold lettering.

"Will these do?"

Ethan starts unwrapping the chocolate with religious eagerness, while still exchanging words with Phoebe.

Phoebe gives another look round the toyshop, and then at the toymaker.

"I could knit you a scarf," she says. "In nice bright colours. I'm good at that — although you might have to wait a few days. Or I could embroider you some slippers — I used to do that for Papa and he was always very grateful. Only he never wore them ... I'm not terribly good at embroidery." She sighes over her shortcomings, and watches a little fairy flit to and fro. "I could give you a kiss."

Another spark, this time of surprise, alights in Ethan's eyes, followed by a sudden frown as he unexpectedly comments: "I do not think your new admirer would approve." A heartbeat later, Phoebe catches the sound of running footsteps nearing fast and, turning around, can see what Ethan had sooner spotted behind her back: the young gentleman, sweating in his coat of vair and bareheaded, his golden locks in disarray, his handsome features very pale. "I, ahem, I may have opened the wrong door . . . I, on my way out . . . see . . ."

Phoebe stares at him in some surprise ... and then gives a little gasp.

And what Phoebe sees behind him is indeed pretty telling: a sleek horse has now appeared, ambling soundlessly towards her. Cut in the deepest shadows, its silhouette looks chiseled, so finely muscular as to look angular; its eyes are ghostly white flames, and the same flames engulf its hooves; and it looks, or rather feel, exceedingly ominous, more frightening that any horse or human or any creature could possibly be. An icy silence has fallen, that Ethan's deadly quiet words barely brush: "The night mare. You freed the night mare. What happened to the lock?"

"I may have, er, broken it," the golden-locked gentleman stammers pitifully, ". . . by accident."

"These things," says Phobe, "do happen."

_(Indeed. Especially when Phoebe's around, according to Captain Hobart.)_

_(That was an *accident*!)_

_(Which is exactly what the golden-locked gentleman was saying. By the way, Kit, is it true that the latest typhoon spotted in the Amber sea was officially registered as "Phoebe"?)_

Perhaps her reassurance would sound better if her voice was not shaking with fear.

Ethan stays silent for a moment. Then, a quiet murmur: "It started as such a beautiful day. I didn't think I would die."

Phoebe utters a little sound that sounds half a denial of this gloomy prognostication and half terrified agreement.

Then she draws a deep breath — and reaches her hand into the satchel that had held the eggs. Without taking her eyes from the nightmare (and her teeth firmly clenched together to stop them chattering), she fumbles for a moment, and then draws her hand out, the fingers wrapped around ... something. If Ethan looks, he will see Phoebe seems to be holding a mouse wrapped in her hand, a wee beastie that looks around with bright black inquisitive eyes, and twitching whiskers.

The golden-locked gentleman was apparently looking, because he jerks away from Phoebe with a little squeak. (Granted, the nightmare would be enough to make anyone rather edgy. Or, well, fundamentally terrified. Phoebe's got a strong personality, though, lots of willpower, and a deeply ingrained positive outlook on life, which makes her less than an ideal victim for the shadow beast. This one is still terrifying, but obviously, not so much that Phoebe would be reduced to a whimpering blob, like the one wearing a coat of vair at her feet.)

Phoebe draws a deep breath and then throws her hand up in the air, her fingers spreading wide, so that the little mouse flies up and then tumbles over and over high in the air.

Only ... suddenly ... there is no mouse. Just a rather beautiful Begman bluebird, swooping through the air to circle Phoebe's head.

"There!" says Phoebe, unclenching her teeth as she points to the nightmare. "St ... stop it! Distract it!"

The bluebird seems to hover in mid-air with shock at the task it finds assigned to it. Then it darts forward, circling the nightmare's head, for the most part staying out of reach but every now and then making little darting manoeuvres designed to irritate and distract the nightmare from Ethan, Phoebe and the golden haired man.

The night mare whines eerily and rears, trying to bite with ebony fangs rather than equine teeth. At that point, Ethan apparently decides to abandon Phoebe and run away on his own; he attempts to rush past the beast and very nearly makes it, but the mare's nostrils flare as the toymaker nears and though blinded by the bird, it still succeeds in landing a vicious kick on the youth, strong enough to kill a man much bigger than slim Ethan.

Phoebe gives a gasp of horror.

Happily, it could not target him efficiently, and the kick became more of a hard shove than of a killing blow. Ethan is sent flying against a tree-like clockwork sculpture which whines and wavers and then disintegrates with a rumbling crash, raining clogs all around its maker. A rather big clog hits Ethan on the head and while still conscious, he is bleeding and obviously stunned, unaware of the mare nearing him, now barely distracted by the Begman bird.

Phoebe takes all this in with dilated eyes, and her bosom rising and falling rather rapidly in her agitation.

"Oh noooo!" she exclaims, the last vowel taking on distinct elements of a wail.

Then clearly coming to a decision, she lefts up her skirts a few inches and directs a kick at the young gentlemen crouched whimpering at her feet.

"Get up!" she says fiercely. "Stand, if you be a man! A Begman would be *ashamed* to behave like that."

"I was born in Amber" is the barely audible answer Phoebe receives.

Phoebe's lip curls. "Then you have no excuse at all for such grovelling, snivelling, *base* behaviour!" she declares roundly.

Phoebe's vibrant voice seems to finally strike a nerve and the shivering young man looks up to her, with a strange mix of fear and adoration in his eyes.

And, remembering that she is a Begman, she looks around the shop for something to lure the Nightmare away.

Then she looks down at her hand, still clutching at the squares of Begman nougat.

She looks up again at the hideous figure of the Nightmare, still showing its ebony fangs.

"Horses," she quavers, "*like* sweet things."

But, to a Nightmare, a young woman's hand might look just as delicious as the nougat she holds ...

Phoebe looks around the shop. A life-sized doll, that's what she needs. Or perhaps not even a full doll ... just part of a doll ... just its ... hand ...

There it is! Lying discarded on a bench — the vast hand of some sort of ape. Why, it could probably enclose Phoebe's slender form if it wrapped its fingers around her!

But can she lift it? Can she use it as a vehicle make may her sweet and chewy offering to the Nightmare?

It is lighter than it looks and Phoebe has no problem using the mechanicape hand as a prolongation of her own, to offer a candy to the night mare. This one bares her fangs and bites . . . and makes Phoebe happy it was not her hand the nightmare effortlessly tore to shreds. Metallic shreds. Meanwhile, Ethan has started pushing himself up, but he is still wobbling and unable to get away from the nightmare, which has already returned its attention towards him.

"Use your mechanical creatures!" Phoebe calls to him, while administering another sharp kick of encouragement to the golden haired youth at her feet.

The gentleman jerks away but, surprisingly, slowly stands up, though his legs wobble even more than Ethan's.

"As for you," continues Phoebe, "you should stop being a lily-livered, toad-eating, lickspittle *lackey* and get up and help me hold the Nightmare off!"

He gulps, his eyes still wide with fear. It is difficult to say how many of Phoebe's words truly reach him, but her fiery determination is not without effect on those around her. Ethan shakes his head drunkenly, apparently conscious again of his surroundings. He points at something behind Phoebe, but she isn't sure what. Does he try to tell her to run away? Does he point to that strange crown on a working bench? Or to the sceptre-like item beside it?

Each item of her chosen invective is accompanied by little jabs at the Nightmare with the wreckage of the giant hand, followed by little dashes away from the creature, rather similar to the antics of Phoebe's little bird, who keeps up the aerial attacks in synchronisation with the Begman maiden.

A "lucky" bite of the horse tears a handful of feathers from the bird, who shrieks as red mingles with blue. Its easy flight turns into a flutter, and it ends crashing not far away from Ethan.

Nevertheless, it retains the strength (and determination) to flutter to a place of comparative safety, behind a shelf of baby dolls, all sitting rigidly upright and wearing an expression of bland disdain for the proceedings.

The mechanicape hand is little more than a toothpick, by now, and white flames seem to exude from the nightmare's nostrils and ebony-fanged mouth.

Those who know Phoebe well would recognise that it is fear as much as anger that is driving her now. But despite her fear, she seems determined to rescue the young toymaker — perhaps for altruistic reasons, but perhaps because she recognises that their collective best hope of escape. But perhaps it's just that Phoebe, being Phoebe, could not do anything else.

_(The GM will utter a phrase almost never used in Amber games and say "wouldn't it be nice if a redhead would show up?")_

And now Phoebe's little retreats have brought her within reach of the bench and the crown and sceptre.

Alas, by then, she has definitely caught the attention of the night mare which, as it turns back towards Ethan, throw a vicious kick towards Phoebe . . . with a loud _CLANG_ as it hits instead the thick sheet of metal brandished as a shield by the now dishevelled golden-haired gentleman, the vair of his coat gleaming silver like the armour of a knight. While he crashes loudly to the ground, his groans indicate that he is still alive and conscious, while Phoebe is now but inches from the crown and sceptre.

"Oh well *done*!" cried Phoebe, who believes that no good deed should go unpraised — it encourages more.

She throws what remains of the hand at the Nightmare, grabs the crown and jams it onto her fair curls (it sits at almost as rakish an angle as the hat which has somehow come adrift in the struggle), while snatching up the sceptre and waving it, like a much fore-shortened quarterstaff, in the general direction of the Nightmare.

A surge of power engulfs Phoebe as she secures the crown upon her fair brow (or jams it there, as it stands). When she directs the sceptre towards the nightmare, she feels that power directed towards the beast, which rears and whines eerily but seems otherwise unable to move, its fangs but a hair from Ethan's head, his back against shelves laden with indifferent dolls. A mental battlefield seems to open between the nightmare and Phoebe, and on this imaginary plane, Phoebe suddenly faces her darkest fear . . .

Colin!

Colin, her little brother, his face so white with fear that the freckles stand out on it ... Colin terrified of the bull in the park - well, Phoebe had been too, only she couldn't show it, because she had to be brave for Colin's sake ...

Colin, older, his shirt ripped and blood running out over his hands, dying in a stupid, stupid duel, just like Farve ... Colin, lying crushed and broken in a ditch because he *would* ride that spirited horse even though it was half-wild (and actually bore a horribly close resemblance to the Nightmare), Colin alone in Begma and crying because she isn't there ... a shadowy husband keeping her away from Begma and her little brother although Colin is ill and crying for her, just like he did when they both had scarlet fever and they wouldn't let her go to him, and she thought she would die with the fear of his dying and she would never see him again ...

Colin hurt, Colin lonely, Colin wounded, Colin dying and wanting her and Phoebe far away, so far away and not able to come to him at all ...

And Phoebe swallows back the choking fear that threatens to suffocate her.

The Nightmare seems to pause. Whether it is the crown and the sceptre, or the novelty of finding a nightmare that is about someone else, not the person standing before it, is hard to say, but the Nightmare shakes its head and snorts and ...

"No!" shouts Phoebe. "You ... shall ... not ... go ... to ... Begma!"

Each word is accompanied by a little stamping step forward, the sceptre lifted and pointing like the rejone of a picador in the bullring as she advances towards the Nightmare, the crown suddenly flaring with glorious light ...

"You will leave him alone!"

"Just as you did, is that it?" a little voice chimes in, charmingly childish. "Leave him alone . . . leave him behind . . . Oh, but it is understandable, quite. You had no choice really, had you? Your mother decided for you. It's not your fault at all. Not your fault that Amber is so much fun, so interesting, so full of wonderful people that you do not remember Colin quite as often, nor as well, as you used to. Who could blame you?"

Phoebe's lips quiver. The voice is right, isn't it? She loves being in Amber, the great city, with its colours and scents and excitements. It makes Begma seem tired and provincial, much as she loves those long open boulevards and the patisseries with their wonderful cakes, much as she loves the city mansion with the schoolroom at the top of the house, and Colin ... Colin ...

"You want me to blame myself," she says firmly. "But I shan't. It's not my fault if I don't think about Colin all the time - it's just the way things are. But he won't think about me, either, because he'll be thinking about his lessons, and his friends, and sailing his boat on the Wattersee, and hunting - he'll think a lot about hunting ... and just occasionally, he'll miss me - but not too much, because I'm a girl and ... "

"I miss Farve too, quite horribly, and I think about him, but he's dead, and I have to think about people who are living and ... and ... who need me and ... and ... who are *here*!"

And suddenly, quite suddenly, that's it — the distraction is behind her, more than just physically, and Phoebe is all determination to rescue the young toymaker and the golden hired youth.

Clouds seem to clear from in front of Phoebe's eyes, and she catches a glimpse of the nightmare trembling and suddenly buckling in front of her . . . just before she herself collapses. She imagines hearing a voice a lot like Ethan's, resonating faintly as if from the end of a very, very long tunnel. Then her fall is suddenly halted and as fingers run through her hair, Phoebe suddenly feels like she can breathe again. The golden-haired gentleman is at her side, the crown in his hand, which he throws at the approaching nightmare, hitting it square between its ghostly eyes. Unable to dodge, the beast is obviously weakened, and it seems to Phoebe that she can see through its shadowy body. She can see Ethan brandishing in front of him a mechanical globe, a clock or a lock, but the night mare does not seem interested in the toymaker anymore. Slowly, its hooves sheathed in pale flames rattle closer to Phoebe, who is still too weakened to move. The gentleman lays her on the ground, retrieves the scepter from her hand, and with a dream-tearing scream, launches at the night mare, swinging the improvised mace into the side of its head.

Phoebe rolls over, forgetting the dignity that a young lady should show (even in the most alarming of circumstances, and stretches out her arms imploringly.

"No!" she cries - a shout of horror as much as anything else.

A thousand stained-glass windows seem to explode in harmony as the iridescent globe topping the scepter crashes into the night mare, sending shards of lights all over the place. The mare screams an all-too-human scream, but far from looking weakened now, the blow appears to have renewed its energies. Beautiful, a pure stream of jet, it now rears in the whirling center of a colorful typhoon, hitting with a front hoof the gentleman square in the chest. The golden-haired wannabe-hero lands brutally onto his back, then lays still, the red of blood now pearling at the corner of his once smiling mouth.

Phoebe drags herself over to his, gazing down at him in consternation ... and then looking up at the rearing nightmare. The sight of it is so terrible and so beautiful that it holds her mesmerised for a moment - but then she is pulling out a little handkerchief from where it has been nestling in the bodice of her dress, and pressing it to the corner of the young man's mouth, while she positions her hand so that she can feel against the back of her hand if he is breathing.

The youth's eyes are wide and unseeing and he breathes in ragged spurts.

The air between Phoebe and the Night Mare shimmers. Myriad colours dance and play and then are still. In their place a man strides purposefully forward with as little effort or concern as though he were stepping through an open doorway.

The man is clad in black and green silk and leather. He is of perhaps average height and build. His eyes are bright emeralds and his hair the colour of flame. Phoebe met him once, at the Duchess' Carnival party, she recalls that he is Prince Brand.

Prince Brand surveys the room and frowns as the nuns did when they found things to be not up to standards. The Prince's blade sings from its scabbard as he walks. Smoke trails the blade and the sound that accompanied it was not unlike the low growl of a hungry predator.

"Stop it!" shouts Phoebe, in no condition to be concerned about court protocol. She scrambles to her feet, heedless of the dust on her skirt, the smudge on her cheeks and the increasingly wild disarray of her golden curls. "It's the Nightmare and it got free ... "

And then her eyes fall upon the sword, and her expression changes ...

"Oh no!" she cries. "I said stop it - don't kill it!" And she dashes forward to try to grab at Prince Brand's arm. "I know it's dangerous - but ... but it's beautiful - it's magnificent - you *must* see that!"

Perhaps someone in the back of her mind, there is a vision of Phoebe, a notable horsewoman, riding the savage splendour that is the Nightmare.

Or perhaps she is just extraordinarily tender-hearted.

The Prince turns his gaze upon Phoebe. He looks upon the hand she has placed upon his arm and arches an eyebrow. The look is precisely the type Phoebe would expect from a headmaster shocked and outraged by the temerity of a particularly wayward student.

For its part, the Nightmare seems content to let Phoebe face the ire of the Prince. It stamps at the ground, cracking the floor and throwing sparks, but does not approach the Prince and his blade.

"Very well, childe," the Prince says, "it is stopped." His tone is not comforting. With an effortless and swift movement of his arm, he sheathes his terrible blade. There is a sound not unlike that of a hungry animal forced to wait for it meal as the blade disappears into the scabbard. "You are new to Amber, so this lesson I give thee: be careful what you ask and to whom you ask it. There is a price for everything, Miss Frewin. Tis best to know you can pay before entering into agreements"

The Prince surveys the wreckage of the shop. Once more the look is that of a teacher finding an unacceptable mess in the classroom or dorms. He shakes his head disdainfully. He spares no attention to the body of the fallen blonde youth.

"Mine, I believe," the Prince states and the crown and shattered sceptre appear in his hands. He looks toward Ethan and says, "I believe my business here is concluded."

He's somewhat different from how Ethan remembered him . . .

With that, he turns on his heel and strides the way he came. With each step he seems to fade until he is gone.

. . . and has disappeared before the toymaker had time to react.

The Night Mare remains and its attention is once more on Phoebe...

_(Oh right. End of the break, time to panic again._

_By the way, Phoebe's officially insane.)_

Ethan looks at the broken (c)lock in his hands, unsure of what to do with it. While the golden device served to ensnare the night mare the fist time around, he presently lacks the time to repair it. Or maybe while the beast is, er, occupied with Phoebe? Hard not to be tempted, especially when all cowardly thoughts are emphasized by the mare's very presence. Ethan first ran away from Phoebe because he knew that he, and only he, was the creature's target, but it is obviously no longer the case. Running away from Phoebe now would have a completely different meaning. To sacrifice her, to save his own skin.

But, wouldn't that be justified? The mare would have been dispatched already, were it not for Phoebe foolishly stopping the prince's blade. Still . . . _she_ did not run away when the beast was focused on _him_, Ethan remembers through a hazy mist of salt and fear . . . Pearls of sweat roll down his forehead; his eyes sting and burn. Such thoughts are so very alien to him, the toymaker listens to himself with some surprise. His mind . . . He needs to clear his mind.

Ethan seizes the spinning top he built around a dream bubble, the same toy he and the kids were playing with when Phoebe arrived, and set it in motion. The toy starts whirling, weakly, but soon gains speed and stability as flashes of color fuse from it, to fly throughout the workshop. A bunch of sparks of a rich rose pink lands on Phoebe's cheek.

Absently she lifts her hand, perhaps to brush them off. Instead she stroked the soft damask of her cheek, and a slow smile begins.

The Night Mare stomps its hooves and the ground trembles. Each stomp sounds like thunder. It glowers balefully at Phoebe and Ethan. Yet, it does not advance.

"It's stopped!" Phoebe calls out. Her voice sounds weak and wavering in her own ears - she thinks it must sound less than impressive to the young toymaker. She draws a deep breath, fighting for calm, the way she did that time she and Colin borrowed Farve's sailing dinghy and took it on the river.

They hadn't meant to go so far down the river ...

And they hadn't really meant to go to sea at all ...

But now she has to be strong and bold and ... what is it? Oh yes. Resolute. Just like she'd been for Colin.

Colin ...

No, she *really* isn't going to think about that at all.

In her agitation, she stomps — and then, realises, belatedly, that she's echoed one of the Nightmare's stomps. She plants both feet firmly on the ground, never taking her eyes from the Nightmare.

You'd have to ride it bareback, of course. No-one would ever be able to *saddle* a Nightmare ...

She pulls herself together.

"While it's stopped," she suggests, "p'rhaps we could use some of the toys here to help us drive it back to its stable. Or wherever you're keeping it."

"Er, yes." Ethan looks at the golden (c)lock in his hands. "I can repair that." Pause. "Do you think our guest will wait for a couple of hours?"

In answer, the Night Mare almost seems to smile. Perhaps it is contemplating how much closer sundown will be in a few hours' time.

"We could try, I suppose," said Phoebe doubtfully.

_(And the gentleman doesn't have that long to live, I believe._

_The player will utter a phrase almost never used in Amber games and say, "Wouldn't it be nice if ANOTHER redhead would show up?")_

By the way, this obviously wasn't a coincidence if Brand showed up when he did . . . . Hasn't Amber some kind of magical watch or something? Maybe if we could make enough magical "noise" to attract the right kind of unwanted attention . . . .

"Miss Phoebe," asks Ethan suddenly, thinking of the young lady's previous display with the mouse-made-bird, "would you have some way, any way, to make some . . . sorcerous racket? If we could catch the attention of some powerful entity, as apparently we already managed once . . ."

At that very moment, Ethan's train of thoughts is interrupted by the sharp sound of something breaking. On the floor, a clay pot lays shattered, leaking chestnut jam, while the dark-haired kid Phoebe remembers is standing above it, his arms hanging, his eyes and mouth wide. The night mare once more seems to smile, as the unadulterated fear it drinks now courses like thunder through its shadowy body.

"I don't think we've got a couple of hours," states Ethan uselessly. "Minutes, maybe."

"I don't know!" wails Phoebe.

As she wails, the bird flutters down next to Ethan and lands delicately on the rim of the clock itself. At least — he assumes it was a bird, for now Ethan finds himself looking at a small red squirrel who is precariously balanced but peering at the workings of the clock with considerable interest. His paws are deft and tiny — small enough to rapidly manipulate the small cogs and chains.

"He'll help you!" says Phoebe. "Just ... tell him what to do!"

And for her part, she moves swiftly to the boy, still keeping her eyes on the Nightmare.

"You think that's scary do you?" she says, fighting to keep her own voice level. "*That's* not scary! Scary is what your *Mother* will be when she finds you've dropped the chestnut jam ... "

If only she can project *that* image into his mind, Phoebe thinks. If only she can break the power of the Nightmare ... for just a minute ...

Ethan circles the Night Mare and rushes to the table with the basin on it, where he replaces the egg by the golden (c)lock. With quick, efficient words, he instructs both his mechanical "cockroach" and Phoebe's small red squirrel, who still suffers from its previous brush with the Night Mare but is doing its very best. While the incongruous trio is trying to repair the mysterious item, Phoebe distracts the urchin's fear, to the obvious displeasure of the night mare, which slowly, nearly reluctantly, starts walking towards them.

"Listen to me," says Phoebe to the boy. "You see that handsome young man on the ground — the one with golden hair? He's been hurt ... and you're the only one who can help him now. I ... I'm going to make the Nightmare look at me ... and you must be very, very brave and pull him to safety — do you understand?"

It seems like the hardest thing she has ever done ... but she takes a half-step towards the Nightmare, to give the boy room to move and act. Whatever Brand did must be warring in its brain with the power it drew from the youth, and from the boy. Not too much from the boy - she was able to stop that, she hopes. But night must fall - no, she mustn't think of that, she mustn't ...

She stands quite still, gazing at the Nightmare, and then draws a deep breath.

"You are beautiful," she says softly. "Frightening, of course. But beautiful. It would be so wonderful to ride you. Terrifying too."

She tries to project different feelings for the Nightmare to read ... the exhilaration of something frightening. Her awe at such power and beauty. She sees her feelings as a gossamer web floating sparkling in the air, a glittering net to weave around the Nightmare. Fragile, very fragile. If only she had the crown and sceptre to strengthen it!

But she has something that Phoebe herself isn't even aware of. She has the egotistical conviction of youth.

The Night Mare turns the full force of its regard on Phoebe. She can sense its great intelligence and predatory hunger. She knows that is has her scent now, her taste. And that it hungers for more.

Phoebe stands quite still for a moment, her eyes half-closed, feeling the caress of the Nightmare's regard. It feels like flirting with the frisson of fear. Then she opens her eyes, and her expression is decisive. She takes a step backwards, then another, watching as the Nightmare follows, still maintaining the same distance between them.

"Where shall I take it?" she asks Ethan. "Where will be safest till you've finished the clock?"

And all the while she is watching for any change in the Nightmare's mood, the Nightmare's threat ...

Suddenly, the nightmare rears back. A hoof passes by Phoebe's head almost too fast to be seen but she feels the unearthliness of it as it passes and her hair flows in its wake.

"Oh my," quavers Phoebe, her hand fluttering up to her hair.

It seems to smile again.

Then, its eyes go wide and it bolts. It razes everything in its path as it tears its way out of the shop and away.

"No!" wails Phoebe.

She looks around the shop, fast.

"You," she says to the boy," get your mother. And a physician. You need to see to the young gentlemen. And don't worry; you can send the bills to the Begman embassy."

And Phoebe, if she survives this, will deal with the Begman ambassador later, she decides. Or perhaps the Begman ambassador will be dealing with her.

The boy quivers and darts away; it's hard to tell if he'll ever come back, or if a physician will ever be on its way.

"I doubt Davil or his mum can even come close to a physician able to save this man's life," Ethan states absentmindedly, his head still bent over his (c)lock, his hands moving with incredible speed and precision for someone who seemed rather on the clumsy side.

"Well," says Phoebe, "they can jolly well try."

Ethan smiles, though a little sadly, at Phoebe's innocence. She does not seem to realize that not everyone is like her, willing to talk to those way below her social status. As for some barefoot unwashed kid telling a physician — or rather, a servant of the physician, for this one will not even be bothered — that the "Begman embassy" will pay the bill . . .

Now she turns her attention to Ethan.

"We *have* to catch it!" she says determinedly. "It's ... it's getting dark - and just *think* of the damage an untrammelled Nightmare could inflict on Amber!"

Most of his attention still on his tinkering, Ethan takes advantage of the pause in Phoebe's fiery speech to mumble: "Oh, I think it was only after me . . . though now, young lady, you definitely seem to have caught its attention."

Phoebe frowns. "Actually," she says, "I don't think it galloped out of here in a state of high glee because it wants us. It's got a whole city stuffed with people who've lived ... who've lived ... well, *very* exciting and *very* long lives. I bet some of the dreams and fears *they* have could keep the Nightmare going for a *very* long time!"

Ethan blinks. Why did the nightmare leave? If it just wanted to feed on the fear of random people, why hunting Ethan on the first place? It could certainly have left the Moon City on its own a long time ago . . . Or could it only follow the dream bubbles? But then, why did it suddenly change its mind and leave?

She draws a deep breath. "You can stay, 'n' fix your clock thing if you think that best. Or you can come with me. I'm going after it. And I'll need transport - we'll never catch it on foot! A big clockwork bird, perhaps, or something else that flies. A dragon, p'rhaps. And a long rope."

At last, Ethan pulls his head from his work, blinking. "A long rope? What for?"

"To ... to catch the Nightmare of course," says Phoebe airily, as though she is proposing to stroll to the end of the home paddock to capture the vicarage pony.

More blinking.

She looks at Ethan expectantly.

More blinking. "And, a dragon? I do have a few flying toys, but none able to carry your weight . . . my lady . . . I mean . . . I mean no offense, but . . ." Ethan's eyes shift back to his clock, on which the mechanical cockroach and the red squirrel are still working. "Had I had anything able to destroy that creature, to be honest, I'd have used it first rather than build this dreamcatcher. I'm kinda allergic to beings of pure terror trying their damndest to kill me. Of course, I did wonder if I couldn't use it in some way for any of my toys, for instance to..." and then Ethan starts describing the 1001 possible uses he had dreamed for a nightmare's mane, hoof flame, or even pure essence of terror. He seems to have completely forgotten about Phoebe, the (c)lock, the dying man, and well, the rest of the world.

"Bite him," says Phoebe to the squirrel. "Oh, not his finger - he needs all of those. Just a nip. The fleshy part of his arm."

The squirrel makes a chirrupping sound of surprise.

"Just to get his *attention*!" explains Phoebe.

"Ouch!"

"You," she says firmly to Ethan (when his attention has been got - either from her words or the squirrel's actions), "need to help me. I need something to chase the Nightmare on — and I need it now. Otherwise ... the Nightmare is going to be getting stronger 'n' stronger, feeding off all the fears of Amber. I don't need to destroy it; actually I don't *want* to destroy it. I'll bring it back here and you can do your ... *things* on it." Phoebe makes an all encompassing gesture; clearly she is somewhat fuzzy on the details of Ethan's art. "Then you can do all the things you want to its mane and stuff."

If Ethan shows signs of daydreaming again at the prospect, she nods at the squirrel.

Ethan realizes that Phoebe will not listen to reason, so he digs an . . . umbrella . . . from a pile of recent clockworks close to his workbench. "Here. It flies. Maybe. Good luck."

"Thank you," says Phoebe, and promptly disregards all superstitions across all Shadows everywhere about the ill luck associated with opening umbrellas indoors by ... opening it.

At once she feels as if she has opened the door and walked into a terrific storm. It almost blows her off her feet ... and she gives a whoop of glee. She struggles and, after a couple of tries, manages to raise the umbrella perpendicular above her head.

And she waits.

After a couple of minutes, she realises that the umbrella isn't going to lift her into the air, and she is going to gain nothing more than an aching arm from fighting to hold it aloft.

"We need more power!" she says despairingly to Ethan.

A noise sounds from behind Phoebe. It's a sound she has not heard in some time. The sound of a nun, or worse, the Mother Superior herself, commanding attention. Its a quiet sound, but one to be obeyed.

Phoebe turns ... very slowly, a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach that she knows only to well - the Caught Out In Mischief feeling.

The author of the sound is a woman perhaps five-two in height. She has the build and ease of movement of a dancer. Her features are delicate and give the impression that some master sculptor devoted a lifetime shaping them. Her purest porcelain skin tone furthers the thought that she is a work of art given breath and elegant motion. Her blazing red hair is up, with one errant strand falling loose near her brilliant emerald eyes. She is attired in green and black. Her blouse and her floor-length split skirt are both hunter green. Her boots and riding gloves are black and shine. Her vest is black with perhaps a hint of some elegant complex tracery of lavender. She stands in the remains of a doorway as the subject of a masterpiece stands within the portrait frame. Every toy and clockwork creation in the shop buzzes and whirs suddenly.

And Phoebe lifts smoothly five and a half feet into the air.

"Have I come at a bad time?" Princess Fiona asks.

Phoebe assays a curtsey. Phoebe has been trained by the best nuns in Begma to curtsey beautifully in every situation they could imagine, but for some unaccountable reason they never thought to include being suspended by an umbrella five and a half feet in the air. She cannot help but feel that her curtsey leaves a little something to be desired, and awards Fiona her most brilliant smile by way of compensation.

"I think you have come at an utterly *perfect* time!" she assures the Princess warmly. "Please, could you help us recapture the Nightmare?"