The Lord of Stariel

by A J Lancaster

  The salted gravel of the driveway crunched as she walked over to the kineticar.

  “Marius?” she prompted. He came back to himself with a few slow blinks. “Are you all right?”

  “Um—Yes. Yes, I’m fine.”

  “Well, you don’t sound very convincing,” she said flatly, but he shook off her question.

  “How did it go? Do we know who hired our rogue illusionist?”

  “Not yet, but soon, I hope,” Hetta told him.

  The house came into sight as they curved the last bend around Starwater.

  “It looks like something out of a fairy tale,” she remarked. The fog was thicker here beside the lake, and it furled about the great monolith in slow-moving patterns. A curious feeling rose in her despite her frustration, a kind of child’s wonder. There were many things she loved about Meridon, but this landscape of bleak fields and distant mountains and evergreens could not be found in that city.

  “With real fairies,” he added with a glance towards the tallest tower, where Gwendelfear was imprisoned in the Tower Room. What were they going to do about Gwendelfear?

  27

  Blackmail

  When they entered the house, Marius headed for the library while Hetta went in search of Wyn. The house was its usual bustle of people; there might as well not have been a fae in the tower for all the difference it made. The servants had so far been astonishingly incurious about the entire affair—something that Hetta chalked up to Wyn’s glamour. It concerned her, and yet it was convenient not to have to deal with gossip on the subject.

  Not that Hetta’s family had shown much more reaction. There had been only one mention of the fae at breakfast—from the surprising source of Alexandra, who had said defiantly that she was going to visit Gwen and then deflated when no one tried to stop her. Hetta had merely requested that she take Wyn with her to open the door. Everyone else seemed to feel that fairies fell into that category of subjects considered gauche to speak openly about, and Lady Phoebe had hurried to fill the silence with inconsequentials after Alexandra stomped out to find Wyn.

  One fae locked away and another running the household, Hetta thought uneasily as she crossed the courtyard, where the shadow of the Northern Tower fell. And an imposter in the lord’s place. How many other secrets were hidden within Stariel’s walls, spreading fine cracks through the edifice? She lay her hand on an older section of stone wall beside the door that led towards the kitchens, the surface rough against her palm. How long had Stariel House stood, in one form or another, against all the world could throw at it? A low ember kindled in her stomach. How dare someone steal the Star Stone and threaten that?

  She stepped away from the wall, shaking her head at the uncharacteristic rush of sentiment towards the building. The stonework needs repairing, she thought prosaically. Presumably due to her father’s lack of maintenance budget. She made a note to discuss it with Mr Fisk—or maybe Wyn? Technically her land steward ought to be the one to advise her on capital expenditure, but it did relate to the house, and Wyn was currently head of the household staff. And also a prince, she couldn’t help thinking, trying to fit those two pieces together, but they wouldn’t click into place no matter how she rearranged them in her head.

  Wyn was unexpectedly easy to find once she re-entered the house. She rounded the next corner and would have barrelled straight into him except that he dodged, quick as a cat.

  “Good, I was just looking for you,” she said as she recovered her balance.

  He spread his hands in an apologetic gesture. “As it so happens, I was in search of you also, my Star. Lord Penharrow is here to see you.”

  That took the wind from her sails. “Oh.” She searched his expression for a clue to his feelings but found none. He was every inch the dignified butler this morning, as buttoned-up as his immaculate suit. Even his hair, which had a natural tendency towards disarray, had been made sleek and extra-butlery. “Where is he?”

  “In the green drawing room.” A pause. “With Lady Sybil.”

  She narrowed her eyes at him. “Did you put him in with my aunt on purpose?”

  “Her ladyship was eager to keep him company.”

  She couldn’t help laughing. “That sounds suspiciously like a ‘yes’.”

  He said nothing, but his eyes gleamed. Prince Hallowyn Tempestren, she thought. That’s what Gwendelfear had called him.

  She bit her lip. “Should I call you—”

  “No.”

  She glared at him. “You don’t even know what I was about to ask.”

  “Well, if you were about to ask if I want you to call me something different now that you know the truth about me, the answer is no. I would prefer you did not.”

  “Fine, go and do some work then, Mr Tempest, if you insist on pretending to be a butler. I’ll track you down later.”

  He bowed, the slight curve of his mouth betraying him. “As you wish.”

  It spoke well of Angus, thought Hetta, that he looked for all the world as if he liked nothing better than to chat to acid-tongued aunts. His smile when Hetta entered the room was perhaps a shade more relieved than it would otherwise have been, but apart from that, his countenance showed no sign of irritation. He rose to greet her as Aunt Sybil lurked in the background, ready to swoop in and put a stop to any unseemly behaviour.

  “I can’t stop for long, but I brought you some of the books I mentioned,” he said, nodding at a neatly bound stack on the coffee table.

  “Oh.” Hetta struggled to merge the mundane with the fantastical. “Thank you.” How did books on sheep and drainage schemes fit into the same world that contained fae princes? Although, presumably, the fae needed to eat too. She and Wyn had once stolen a whole tray of cherry pastries, which he’d certainly eaten his fair share of.

  She shook the thoughts away and focussed on the man in front of her. This wasn’t the time to wonder if the fae farmed sheep. Angus was reassuringly solid, handsome as ever.

  “I’m happy to lend you any book or periodical in Penharrow’s library.” He grinned. “Though I insist you return them in person.” Would he still flirt with her if he knew she was a fraud? But Angus, she remembered, had shown an interest in her before she’d been chosen. That was heartening.

  “A very generous offer, but Stariel really ought to develop some of its own resources.” She’d already sent off for various dauntingly named volumes and subscriptions based on Angus’s recommendations. She would argue with Jack that they were a necessary investment, if it came to it. Stariel shouldn’t have to limp along on weak finances for simple lack of modernisation. “You shall have to come up with a less feeble excuse to invite me to tea, Angus.” Aunt Sybil made a clucking noise, as if to remind them of her presence.

  Angus grinned. “You’re right. There’s a new play starting at the theatre down in Alverness. Why don’t we make a day trip, go to a matinee session?”

  Her younger self swooned at the offer, and Hetta found herself accepting before she’d properly considered whether it was a good idea to encourage Angus with things as they were at present. But it was only a play—and far better to focus on someone like Angus, who was both human and clearly interested, as opposed to, hypothetically, certain butlers who were neither. Additionally, she didn’t have to wonder if Angus was hiding an unsettling visage under his skin, although she quickly checked that thought, heat rising in her cheeks. She couldn’t speculate about Angus’s skin while sitting in the same room as her aunt. Even if a certain memory had risen, of a sticky-hot summer and a shirtless Angus helping to get a field of cut hay under shelter before a downpour. She quickly squashed the image, cursing her illusionist training that made it extremely easy to visualise the details.

  Angus had to excuse himself after only a short time, and she took the books he’d brought up to her study. On her desk rested a tray holding a steaming coffeepot and all the necessary accoutrements. How, Hetta wondered, had Wyn managed to time that so beautifully? It looked surprisingly as if it belonged here
, nestled next to her notes on the dark wood, though her father had never to her knowledge drunk coffee. Was it a peace offering? she wondered, unsure whether to be pleased or vexed. It didn’t stop her from pouring herself a cup. The rich taste warmed her down to her toes, and she smiled with simple, uncomplicated pleasure.

  Her smile faded as her gaze fell across the rest of her desk. Her empty desk. The accounts books had disappeared. Again. She let out a long breath of annoyance. Mr Fisk had taken them back again, despite her instructions to the contrary. He might have been her father’s steward for years, but at this rate it was doubtful he was going to be Hetta’s for even six months.

  The thought pulled her up short. She wasn’t the real lord; she wouldn’t be here in six months. Ought she to be making staffing decisions on her successor’s behalf? Ought she to be making any substantive decisions, when she knew she didn’t truly have the authority to do so?

  She drank the rest of her coffee and mulled over the thought and the ones that came with it, about phonelines, crumbling stonework, the shut-up Dower House, and drains. Standing next to the window, she could watch the fog over Starwater slowly burning off. It was a lovely sight, the remnants of frost glistening in the pale sunlight on the lake’s edges.

  She’d never asked for this role, but it was even worse to have all the trappings of it without any of the authority. It meant her hands were tied when it came to making changes to the estate. Or were they? Surely whoever came after her ought to be grateful that she was getting the ball rolling, as it were? Her time with the accounts and her conversations with Angus had convinced her the estate couldn’t continue as it had been. Sitting twiddling her thumbs in agonised indecision didn’t seem like it would benefit anyone.

  She hadn’t come to any firm conclusion by the time the coffee ran out, but she at least felt much more able to face the world.

  There was a diffident knock at the door, and one of the housemaids came in carrying a bundle of letters. “The mail’s arrived, my lord,” she said to Hetta, handing her a sheaf of letters.

  “Thank you, Lottie.” The housemaid nodded and left.

  She turned her attention to the letters, which were a mix of polite congratulations from neighbours on her appointment, bills, early Wintersol cards, RSVPs for the Frost Ball, which ought, really, to have been addressed to Lady Phoebe, and one last letter that did not fit into any of these categories. She thought it was another polite acknowledgement from one of the local gentry based on the quality of the paper and the neat handwriting, but when she opened it, she saw that it was something of another sort entirely.

  Lord Valstar—it pains me to involve a woman in this matter, but I feel it is my duty to warn you that your brother’s recent activities are such that would bring only scandal upon your house if they became known. As his younger sister, you must naturally look up to him, and it is to my sorrow that I must disillusion you so. Your brother is an unnatural predator who has used his position to lure innocent youths from the path of what is right and proper. I will not say more on this head in order to spare your female sensibilities, but I believe that you will agree that reparation should be made for the harm he has caused. Otherwise I shall be forced to lay information with the local constable.

  Letters addressed to Mr T c/o Stariel Post Office will reach me.

  Yours regretfully,

  Mr T

  Hetta dropped the note. She had a strong impulse to summon fire and burn the clumsy attempt at blackmail to ash, but she managed to check it. This was followed by an incredulous laugh as she recalled the phrase ‘female sensibilities’.

  What trouble had Marius managed to get himself into? She remembered, suddenly, the night she’d overheard Marius and Wyn speaking. Wyn had offered to help an upset Marius—help that had involved magic. It seemed probable that the two events were related. And maybe—related to the theft of the Star Stone? She folded the letter in half, slipped it into her pocket, and went in search of her problematic butler for the second time that day.

  28

  Pear Varietals

  Wyn was, as usual, busy. He stood at the back entrance to Stariel House, directing deliverymen to the storeroom, a large clipboard in one hand as he took stock of what had been delivered against what had been ordered.

  The grocers’ cart was nearly entirely emptied by the time Hetta arrived on the scene, and she judged that her interference would be both unhelpful and unneeded. Wyn flashed her a single brilliant smile in greeting, and she leaned against one wall of the house and watched him as he neatly toted up the last few items and thanked the men delivering the goods.

  Hetta hadn’t yet reconciled her new knowledge of him with the old, and it was hard to do so now, watching him engaged in such ordinary activity. He seemed to be on good terms with the deliverymen. The older of the two slapped him on one shoulder at some remark the younger had made. Hetta vaguely recognised the two men as locals from Stariel-on-Starwater. That people liked Wyn was something she’d already known—something she’d always attributed to his good nature and ready smile. Was it fae glamour, she wondered, watching the men? But she could detect nothing like the strange magic she’d seen Wyn use before.

  As Wyn asked about the older man’s wife and congratulated the younger man on the quality of the sausage the youth had apparently had a hand in making last time, Hetta reflected that it was possible a large part of Wyn’s charm was because he was genuinely interested in people in a way that Hetta was not. Here she was, Lord of Stariel, and all she knew about these two men was that they were locals. Wyn knew the little details of their lives.

  She came over when she judged the men were about to leave and introduced herself, thanking them for their efforts. They seemed surprised but pleased, and both doffed their hats in respect.

  Hetta watched as the two men drove away. “Are you on such good terms with all the locals, Mr Tempest?”

  Wyn considered the question. “On reasonable terms with most, yes.” The morning sun revealed notes of mahogany in his dark eyes. He canted his head. “Is there something you want of me, Miss Hetta? More coffee, perhaps? I apologise if I misjudged the quantity.”

  She swatted his shoulder, and his eyes grew round and innocent. “But what have I done to offend you, Miss Hetta?”

  She glared at him. “Well, if you’re going to be like that, you could at least get it right. It’s Lord Valstar to you.”

  “Of course, my Star.”

  “This is ridiculous,” she said, throwing her hands up.

  Wyn gave a slight bow. “I do my best.”

  “You know what I mean. This entire mess—fairies, nefarious plots, missing Stones. You.”

  “Which particular aspect of me is irking you this morning?” He tucked the clipboard under his arm. “Or am I merely the most accessible target at the moment?”

  “The most accessible,” she admitted. Partly to disconcert him, she added, “You know, you don’t look at all like a fae prince.”

  He shrugged. “Good.”

  “In any case, there was something I wanted to talk to you about. Will you walk with me down to the Home Farm?”

  He blinked, taken off guard, then replied easily, “As you wish.”

  The Home Farm was to the southwest of the house. The walk there took them through the woods along the lakeside, currently spartan without their leaves.

  “Why do I suspect we are not going this way because you have developed a burning interest in traditional varieties of pears?” Wyn said lightly.

  He was nervous, Hetta thought, though he hid it well. She didn’t bother to answer the rhetorical question. The breeze rattled the naked arms of the beech trees around them.

  “Tell me about Gwendelfear,” she said, picking her words carefully. “How did you know who she was?”

  He shrugged, his movements as graceful as ever as they walked, but she knew him well enough to see his tension. It was there in the way he held himself, as if every muscle was being individually directed, in the sligh
t tightness around his eyes.

  “I did not, at first, though I could tell she was of Faerie at a glance. It’s difficult to explain how I knew that. It’s…” She could tell he was searching for the right metaphor, his long-fingered hands making a rolling motion. “An instinctive thing. Another sense. The way you know coffee is coffee even before you taste it.”

  “You’re saying that Gwendelfear smells fae?”

  “It’s as good an analogy as any.”

  “How did you know her name?”

  “I read her—it’s a gift of royal fae.” There was a hint of bitterness in his voice, though his expression remained neutral. Good, he’d said earlier, when she’d told him he didn’t look like a prince; it didn’t take a genius to realise he disliked that his own magic was a mark of his birthright. “She refuses to speak to me. She hates me, although I am not sure if that is because of my court or because I am responsible for her imprisonment.” Another pause, and then he came to a halt, turning towards Hetta. “Do you want me to go, Hetta?” He was trying very hard to appear detached, but his voice betrayed him. The words had come out husky with emotion.

  She studied him. He looked more natural here, amongst the stark browns and greys of the wood, than he had in the courtyard, cajoling deliverymen. Here, it seemed obvious he wasn’t human, for what human had that sense of wild, contained energy, that alien beauty, that sense of absolute stillness? She wanted very badly to ask what lurked beneath his skin. Was he like Gwendelfear? She tried to imagine his eyes without whites, flower-pupils staring out at her from the russet irises. And yet she couldn’t ask him, for she knew that it would hurt him to know his appearance was weighing on her mind so.

  “You lied to me.” She met his eyes steadily. “For years, you lied to me.”