“Your chariot, my lady,” he said with a grin.
They conversed amicably as they drove. Angus shook his head as they passed water-logged fields occupied by sad-looking sheep. “Drains are the future of modern farming,” he remarked. “My father started them at Penharrow years ago, and I can’t say he was wrong to do so. Increases productivity remarkably.”
“Father was always very traditional,” Hetta said. She knew very little of farming. Father hadn’t considered it an appropriate subject for a girl. “But perhaps the new lord will be keen to modernise.”
Angus shot her a quick, searching glance. “Perhaps,” he said, and Hetta knew he wanted to ask who she thought would be chosen. Though why he thinks I’d have any insight into it when I haven’t set foot here in years is a mystery. On the other hand, surely her family’s dynamics wouldn’t have changed that much? She turned the possibilities for the new lord over in her mind; she hadn’t yet given it much thought. It was hard to imagine anyone other than Lord Henry Valstar in that role. My father is dead. Her chest tightened, and she had to force her fingers not to curl into fists. How dare her father be dead when she was still so very angry at him?
No one ever knew for sure who Stariel would choose, but historically it did often go from father to eldest son. That would mean Marius. Marius had always taken her side. He’d openly risked their father’s displeasure, visiting her in the great Southern capital when he could. Father never thought Marius would be chosen though. No, unless things had changed significantly, Hetta knew exactly who was expected to inherit: her cousin Jack. He was everything Lord Henry’s eldest son was not: blunt and practical, and traditionally masculine in all the ways that counted with the old lord. He had the strongest land-sense in Hetta’s generation. Hetta frowned at the passing countryside. Even if Father thought Jack would inherit, it didn’t justify treating Marius as a failure. There was more to life than this dashed estate!
They passed through the village of Stariel-on-Starwater. Not much had changed in six years, and Hetta’s anger at her father’s favouritism faded under a swell of nostalgia. She and Marius had ridden down to the village often. There was the tea shop where they’d frequently over-indulged in clotted cream scones. There was the farrier’s workshop. There was the post office with its odd carved owl on the sign, the building impossibly quaint now in comparison to the much larger ones in Meridon. Had the village always been this small? And yet each difference gaped at her like a missing tooth: the apothecary had transformed into a hat shop; the white fence was grey and peeling; and one of the mature walnut trees on the village green had become a rotting stump.
“Have you missed it?” Angus asked.
Hetta started, pulled from her memories. She considered her answer. “In part,” she said after a pause. “How little it has changed since I left! I feel like I’ve gone back in time.”
“We must seem terribly provincial to you,” Angus remarked. He said this with an unruffled assurance that belied his words. He did not value the so-called sophistication of the South.
Hetta couldn’t resist the urge to tease. “Oh, yes. I confess I don’t know how I’ll occupy myself in such a backwater until the Choosing. I’m sure there won’t be any conversation worth having with anyone here. In fact,” she added seriously, “I’ve become steadily more convinced of this all morning.”
Angus snorted, but again that odd look crossed his face. Hetta gave herself a stern mental lecture on appropriate moments for levity, but she couldn’t help wishing that one of her Meridon theatre friends were here.
It began to rain as they drove, a sudden downpour typical of the North’s climate at this time of year. In seconds, the world faded into greyness, and the sound of rain on the kineticar’s roof made conversation difficult. They slowed to cross the Home Bridge, and Hetta knew they were only a few miles away from Stariel House. The kineticar’s tyres clattered on the uneven surface.
The rain eased as they rounded a bend and the house came into view. With its trio of turrets, stone walls, and high, arched main entrance, the central part of the structure bore a strong resemblance to a medieval castle. The Valstar crest flew at half-mast from the highest turret, but other than that it was much the same as when she’d left all those years ago. The sight hit Hetta with the force of a blow. Home, her land-sense pulsed again. Hetta huffed internally at the sensation. This wasn’t home anymore, magical connection notwithstanding, and she refused to be sentimental about a building. Stariel House wasn’t even a pretty building, taken in its entirety, since generations of Valstars had seen fit to add a mish-mash of architectural styles to the central castle core.
Before she could ask him to do otherwise, Angus had pulled up outside the formal front entrance and switched off the engine. Why had she let herself get so distracted, drinking in the sight of the house? She would’ve preferred to arrive at the back tradesman’s entrance near the kitchens, where she could have slipped in without fuss, but she supposed that was wishful thinking. There was, inevitably, going to be fuss. A strange heaviness formed in her chest. What if they didn’t accept her back now Father was gone?
She took a deep breath and got out of the car. Angus followed and lifted out her trunk before she could make a move for it.
“Thank you,” she said.
The formal entryway rose before her, familiar and intimidating all at once. Mythical creatures made of stone guarded the bottom of the stairs. Hetta had named them Spot and Reginald in a fit of whimsy long ago. Reginald was a horned greyhound-like creature; Spot was a large cat with three tails. Both came from local fairy stories.
Heart racing, she mustered her courage and marched up the steps to the main door before raising the knocker and bringing it down in a four-beat tattoo. As she stood waiting, oddly dizzy with anticipation, she found herself thinking of a scene from the play where the hero entered the demon’s lair. She dismissed the likeness as fanciful, a little annoyed with herself. There were no theatrical snake-demons here. Unless we count Aunt Sybil, she thought. Besides, in all probability it would be Wyn opening the door, since he was apparently butler now, and not one of her relatives, so there was no reason for this anxiety in any case.
Despite these reassurances, her nerves stretched, waiting. She was just wondering if she should knock again when the door opened and Hetta found herself staring into her older brother Marius’s spectacle-framed eyes.
2
An Old Friend
“Why are you opening the door?” she said inanely as his grey eyes lit up. Thank goodness it wasn’t one of her more antagonistic relatives, but, really, Marius shouldn’t be manning the front door either. If Wyn wasn’t available, it should’ve been the footman. They did still have a footman, didn’t they? The thought felt oddly alien. Hetta-the-no-name-illusionist didn’t have servants.
“Hetta! You came!” Marius pulled the door fully open and caught her up in a tight embrace. “Oh, Hetta.” He made a noise somewhere between a laugh and a cry, and Hetta could feel his body trembling. Was the excess of emotion purely on her account? Oh, Marius, what have they been saying to you? But the knot in her stomach eased a little nonetheless at the warm welcome.
“It’s good to see you too, Marius.” She returned the embrace before drawing back to examine him. They shared the same long nose and high, flying brows. She’d last seen her oldest brother more than a year ago when he’d come down to Meridon to visit. The silver threading Marius’s thick black hair at his temples had grown more pronounced, though Marius was only twenty-seven. Their father had gone grey young too, Hetta remembered being told.
“You look well,” she told him fondly, raising a hand to touch the silver. Though stressed, she added silently, taking in the circles under his eyes. Was it only Father’s death and the funeral arrangements, or was it what came after? Their entire family, like Angus, would be speculating about whether Marius would inherit—hopefully not to his face, but she wouldn’t put it past some of them. Even if everyone had somehow managed to
be abnormally tactful and refrained from doing so, Marius would still be sensitive to the undercurrents.
Marius looked past her and frowned.
“Whatever is Penharrow doing in our driveway?” he murmured before raising his voice and greeting him. “Lord Penharrow.” He nodded politely at Angus.
“Valstar,” Angus acknowledged.
It had previously struck Hetta as unfortunate that the two men were civil acquaintances rather than friends, despite their proximity of age, location, and birth. Of course, her younger self had thought it unfortunate mainly because it meant fewer opportunities to see Angus. Yes, how very unreasonable for two dissimilar personalities not to form a close friendship simply for my convenience, she thought, hiding a smile.
“Angus was kind enough to drive me from the station,” Hetta explained. “I’m afraid I forgot to tell anyone when I was coming. I can’t think how I came to be so scatter-brained.”
Marius’s brows drew together. “That’s not like you, Hetta.” The delight at her arrival drained from him. “Although I suppose these are hardly usual circumstances.” They shared a look, and Hetta could see the echo of her own recurring thought, the same complicated mix of emotions accompanying it: Father is dead.
Marius shook himself. “Anyway, thank you, Penharrow, for rescuing my sister. Would you like to come in?” This last was said with a little pause of reluctance.
Angus smiled sympathetically as he gave his refusal. “No, no. I imagine you’ve enough chaos in the household at the moment, and I really should be getting back.”
Marius and Hetta paused to wave as he drove away and out of sight. Marius took in Hetta’s trunk.
“You travel lighter than I thought you would.”
She shrugged. “I manage. I left my bricks at home.”
Marius heaved her trunk under an arm, and Hetta let him. Her brother didn’t provoke the same desire to prove her independence as Angus, perhaps because Marius had always taken her seriously. Besides, her bedroom was up two flights of stairs. And no doubt brotherly solicitude will wear off sooner rather than later once he gets over the novelty of my presence.
The open, hard-tiled space of the grand entryway amplified sounds, carrying strains of voices from distant rooms, but they met no one as they made their way up the main staircase. Still, her heart pounded, as if they might turn a corner and run straight into one or other of her relatives. It was strange to think the person she dreaded meeting most was the one person she was guaranteed not to run into. But it was somehow impossible to convince herself he wasn’t here anymore, not while walking these familiar hallways.
“Who else is here?”
“Everyone,” Marius said with a sigh. “That’s why I answered the door, actually. Wyn is trying to be in sixteen places at once. The footman was supposed to be manning the door for visitors, but he’s in the breakfast room with Phoebe.” He adjusted his grip on her trunk. “Something Aunt Sybil said about blue china and mourning aesthetics. I may have suggested he would be better able to aid her than I.”
Hetta raised a brow at him, and he gave a sheepish smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes. Poor Marius—and poor Phoebe. Their stepmother hated disapproval and tended to throw herself with frantic earnestness into the effort of avoiding it. Hetta had no doubt Phoebe’s nerves would be strung tight as she tried to arrange a funeral with ‘helpful’ and conflicting suggestions from the rest of her relatives. It would be a losing battle; there was no way to please every single Valstar simultaneously.
“How is Phoebe holding up?” She’d never been sure how much affection her stepmother held for Father. Hetta and Marius’s stepmother had married the late Lord Valstar seven years after the death of his first wife, who hadn’t survived birthing Hetta. Phoebe had been very young indeed when Lord Valstar married her, at seventeen—only a handful of years older than Marius, in fact. And younger than I am now. Hetta wrinkled her nose. What a distasteful thought.
Marius shrugged. “Much as we all are, really.” Something very dark flickered in his gaze. “Though I haven’t had any hysterics over the china just yet.” He didn’t say the words Everyone thinks cousin Jack is going to be chosen rather than me, but they clamoured unspoken in the air around them nonetheless.
Hetta wanted to hug him but couldn’t since he was carrying her trunk. She settled for a bright smile instead. “Well, let me know if you feel some coming on and I’ll help you find the dustpan and brush.”
He didn’t reply as they turned towards the west wing, the intersection marked by a portrait of their deceased grandfather, Lord Marius Valstar II—her brother’s namesake. Present-day Marius avoided the portrait’s severe gaze.
An unpleasant thought occurred, and Hetta paused.
“My room?” She’d just assumed it would still be hers, but it had been years since she’d left, with not much expectation of ever returning. What if Father had decided to expunge any sign of her presence from the house?
“Oh, you’re safe,” Marius assured her. “Though it was a near thing. We’re pretty tightly pressed for bedrooms, what with all our relatives descending upon us.”
“I would’ve thought there were plenty of bedrooms?” Stariel House was enormous.
“Not habitable ones, there aren’t.” Marius began to tick off names on his fingers and then abandoned the motion since there were far more Valstars than there were digits. “Not counting those of us already in residence, there’s all our aunts and uncles, every one of our first cousins, and most of our seconds.”
“And Grandmamma?” Hetta would not mind unexpectedly bumping into Grandmamma in the hallway. “Is she still in the Dower House?”
Marius snorted. “No, that’s got even less habitable bedrooms than this one. They shut up the Dower House last month. Grandmamma’s living here now.”
There was no way Hetta could’ve known that, given the freshness of the news. “Oh.” Why had Father shut up the Dower House? Wyn, by far her most reliable correspondent, hadn’t mentioned anything in his last letter, but then perhaps he hadn’t known at the time. “Is Grandmamma well?”
“She’ll outlast us all,” Marius reassured her. He picked up on her silent question without prompting; he’d always had a knack for subtext, when he wasn’t distracted by his own thoughts. “I think Father was concerned at the ongoing expense of keeping the house open.” He examined his own words and frowned, as if it were the first time he’d reflected on the question. “Though I don’t know why. I guess it doesn’t make sense, running two households rather than just the one.”
As Marius said, it didn’t make sense, but Hetta thought of the grey, peeling fences in the village, and unease stirred. Most likely Father’s steward simply hasn’t gotten around to organising the repairs yet, she told herself. She hoped so, for the new lord’s sake. Neither Jack nor Marius deserved to inherit financial woes.
They arrived at her old bedroom, and it took Hetta six years back in time. The walls were still the same pale yellow. The theatre posters and cut-outs she’d pinned up in defiance of respectability remained, the colours faded now with age. A faint smell of cleaning products tickled her nose, and she saw with relief that the linen looked freshly changed. Evidently someone had prepared for her coming despite her lack of communication.
Father didn’t change anything at all in my absence. Hetta turned in a slow circle, not sure what to do with that thought. Maybe he simply closed the door and forgot about me.
Marius had just deposited her trunk next to the dresser when footsteps sounded in the hallway.
“Marius?” a soft voice inquired, and the door to the bedroom swung open.
There stood the eldest of their half-siblings, and Hetta stared. When had Gregory gotten so tall? She performed a rapid mental calculation—he must be seventeen now. Tallness was not so unreasonable, in that context, but she struggled to match her chubby little brother with the gangly youth now rocking uncertainly on the threshold. In general, the Valstars tended towards darker hair, owing t
o the strong dose of Noorish blood in their lineage, but Gregory had inherited his mother’s curling golden locks, pale skin, and delicate features. Only his grey eyes betrayed his Valstar inheritance. As a boy, he’d been rather adorable, like a cherub. No doubt he wouldn’t appreciate being referred to as such anymore. Not that he exactly appreciated it as a boy.
“Henrietta?” he said unsurely.
“Gregory,” she said blankly. “How tall you’ve grown. I clearly can’t keep addressing you as ‘little brother’ in my correspondence.” Gregory now stood half a head taller than Hetta.
“I didn’t think you’d come,” Gregory blurted out, then flushed. “Oh—sorry, I mean, it’s great to see you—” He faltered as he remembered the solemnity of the occasion. “I mean, not great, but—”
“I’m glad to see you again in person too,” Hetta interjected kindly. “It’s been too long. I hope we’ll see more of each other while I’m here.”
Gregory recovered his composure enough to ask how long she meant to stay.
“Till the Choosing, of course, brat,” Marius said without venom. But he shot Hetta a sharp look nonetheless, and she realised with a start that he would like some reassurance on that point himself. Evidently Hetta had become outrageous enough that even the family member she was closest to wasn’t sure whether she would be bound by this last and greatest tradition of their house. For a moment, all she could do was blink at him, unsure if she was annoyed or not by that. It had never crossed her mind that she could simply not come home on such an occasion, but if Marius thought it, then so had everyone else.
A spark of temper flared. “I’ll be here for the Choosing, of course.” The words came out more defiantly than she’d intended. Why did she care if her family thought her lost to all sense of familial duty?
The Lord of Stariel Page 2