The Lord of Stariel

by A J Lancaster

  “Yes,” he said. “I did.” There was a long, sombre moment between them.

  “You might at least try to defend yourself. It would make it easier to rail at you,” Hetta said crossly.

  Wyn gave a fleeting smile. “Very well. In fairness then, at no point during our friendship did you actually ask if I was a fae prince.”

  “That’s a very poor defence.”

  “Yes.” He turned his face away and examined the peeling bark of the nearby silver birch as if it fascinated him.

  She scowled. It was like him to be flippant when nervous, but she was in no mood for his evasions today.

  “I—” He swallowed. “Sorry, I’m being childish. Can you forgive me?”

  Hetta sighed. The problem, really, was that she had half-forgiven him already, when he’d met her eyes across Gwendelfear’s unconscious body with a frightened expression that said please help me. Remaining angry at him for keeping secrets seemed petty when set against things like threatened murder and wars. And yet, petty or not, she was still angry at him for it. “You’ll have to give me time.”

  He made a loose gesture, as if to say that time was in plentiful supply. “But I doubt very much that the only reason you dragged me out here was to grumble at me. What’s troubling you?”

  Hetta debated for a few moments, and then drew the letter out of her coat and handed it to him. “This.” She waited while he read it. His expression was pensive rather than surprised. “And,” she added when he looked up, “I overheard you offer to help Marius out of some difficulty using magic—I don’t know the particulars of it, for I didn’t stay to listen—but it seemed unlikely that the two things weren’t related.”

  Wyn handed her back the note. “The note is my fault—an oversight I can rectify easily enough.” He hesitated and gave a short, tight smile. “I know you want more details than that, but this is not my secret to tell.”

  She gave him a long, thoughtful look, her mind shuffling through the possibilities. The fae magic Wyn had so far revealed had been troubling in its implications. “Are you going to work further magic on the person who wrote this letter?”

  He met her gaze. “Yes.”

  “Is it—will it harm them?”

  “It will cause them no small amount of frustration, I suspect, but in the sense you mean, no.” This wasn’t an entirely satisfactory answer, and Wyn clearly knew it. Hetta considered pushing but knew it wouldn’t do any good. She didn’t bother to hide her unhappiness with this state of affairs.

  He let out a long sigh and straightened. “Shall we continue down to the farm or have you concluded your inquiries?”

  “Well, we may as well, since all I’ve achieved so far today is to encounter a frustrating number of dead ends. At least this may count as some form of productive activity. I’ve been wanting to talk to the farm manager about the orchards since Angus suggested improvements for them.” Mentioning Lord Penharrow had been a deliberate jab that Hetta immediately regretted, but Wyn took it without any noticeable change in expression. Hetta told herself sternly that she wasn’t slightly disappointed by this.

  Wyn smiled. “It appears I overestimated my importance then—you truly were interested in pear varietals.” He shook his head, his expression comically embarrassed. “Arrogant, arrogant creature I am.”

  She laughed. “Well, it’s more that I feel that I ought to be interested in pear varietals. Do we even grow pears?”

  “We do, although not at present. The orchards will be fairly bare at this time of year, I’m afraid. Late-season apples may be the best you can hope for.”

  They walked through the woods in silence. The trees along this way weren’t natives of Stariel. They had been planted by one of Hetta’s ancestors who’d had a fondness for the great copper beech trees of the South. That ancestor had died before the trees were more than saplings, but the full glory of her vision was now realised some hundred and fifty years later. The copper beeches were not fully deciduous, retaining a significant mass of browning leaves on their lower branches through the winter. It made this part of the walkway very dimly lit, and Hetta summoned a ball of light without a second thought. Its amber glow bobbed merrily above their heads as they walked. Wyn smiled up at it but didn’t comment. She dismissed it as the woodland came to an end, opening out to the fenced rows of the orchards.

  Wyn had guessed aright. The ancient apple trees still bore a few late fruits in their upper branches. Hetta drew closer to the orchard and leaned against the gate, caught by a memory of a much younger Wyn squirreling his way up a gnarled apple tree.

  “You used to climb like a cat,” she remarked softly.

  “Still do,” he said promptly, coming to stand beside her.

  “That does not seem like the kind of dignified behaviour one expects from fae princes. Or one’s butler.”

  “Well—I am the only fae prince you have met. And perhaps you have previously been acquainted with only an inferior sort of butler.” His eyes gleamed when she turned to look at him, brimming with mischief.

  “No, you cannot possibly—” she said, laughing, for he was very properly attired in white shirt, bow tie, waistcoat, and neat tweed jacket, but before she could say any more, she was being handed said jacket and watching her friend leap nimbly over the fence to clamber up the nearest tree with the quick efficiency of a ferret. He paused when he’d reached a secure perch and reached out to pluck an apple from an outstretched branch.

  “Catch,” he called down, grinning.

  She shook her head at his foolishness but couldn’t help grinning back. She held out her hands obediently. He lobbed the apple gently, and it fell into her grasp with a neat plop. “Very nice.”

  She saw him turn and stare past her, amusement flickering through his expression before he composed himself. “Ah, Mr Brown. Well met.”

  Hetta turned to see that the farm manager had appeared behind them and was staring at Wyn, lost for words. Wyn made his way back to ground level, retrieved his coat from Hetta, and greeted him in a solemnly dignified fashion not ten seconds later, as if nothing at all unusual had just occurred. Mr Brown wasn’t quite game enough to question Wyn’s actions in the face of his slightly aloof manner, and Wyn would have carried them all successfully past the awkward moment if Hetta hadn’t spoiled things by breaking into a fit of giggles.

  29

  The Modern Man’s Guide to Sheep Farming

  The days ticked away without any sign of resolving the mystery. The village’s Frost Faire—Jack’s deadline—was held on the 1st of December, and Stariel’s Frost Ball for the local gentry would be the following Saturday, part of the month of festivities leading up to Wintersol.

  The blackmail attempt and Marius’s secret weighed on her mind. It seemed unlikely that Stariel had two enemies wandering about. She wondered how best to broach the subject with her brother while she went through and approved the list of supplies to be brought in as part of Stariel Estate’s contribution to the Frost Faire. It felt fraudulent to sign her name against orders, but someone needed to do it, and it was, after all, hardly unreasonable stuff. She made a note to ask Wyn about the village council’s attitudes towards illusions. She might as well offer her abilities up in the name of festivity if they weren’t all as hidebound as her father. Though it might also just make the villagers even gladder to be rid of me, if we announce my fake lordship soon afterwards, she couldn’t help thinking.

  In a valiant attempt to put it out of her mind, she buried herself in one of the periodicals Angus had lent her, dauntingly titled The Modern Man’s Guide to Sheep Farming. She was relieved to find it more interesting than its title would suggest, although unfortunately also tiresomely oblivious to the idea that anyone female might be reading it. Perhaps, she thought with a sliver of amusement, she ought to write to the editor.

  Still, there was only so much one could read about sheep in a single sitting, and she found her mind wandering towards her older brother once more. It was a mixed blessing when he appear
ed at her study door, holding a nondescript wooden crate in a surreptitious manner.

  “Oh, do come in,” she told him, amused. “Anyone who sees you will immediately think you’re up to something.”

  “But I often receive crates for my studies and tote them around the house for perfectly unobjectionable reasons!” Marius protested.

  “It’s not the box—it’s your manner. This is why you always lose at cards, brother mine.”

  His face fell. “Well, I didn’t want to bring the formal casket up, and the false Stone wouldn’t fit in my coat pocket.”

  She refrained from pointing out that no one would have been bothered by him openly carting the Stone about if he had simply said he was studying the history of it for a paper he had in mind to write. No one enquired too closely into his scholarly activities, and everyone knew he often took odd interests. Instead, she asked if he had seen Jack today.

  “No—he’s in a mood.” Marius emphasised the last word. “Or rather, a sulk. But he is at least being more useful than last time he disappeared. Grandmamma said he was out walking the bounds and distributing the defensive talismans that she made up.”

  There was beat of silence while they together considered the sheer strangeness of that statement. How one’s perspective of the world could shift! Then Marius shook himself and placed the crate containing the false Stone on Hetta’s desk. He undid the lid and lifted it out, handling it with his typical carefulness when it came to artefacts of interest.

  “I think,” Marius said, passing the fake from one hand to the other, “that it might be worth getting this analysed to see if we can trace how it was made.”

  “It’s not magical,” Hetta said swiftly, “or at least, not in any way I can detect. The substance itself, I mean. Obviously, there was a magical illusion cast upon it.”

  “Yes.” Marius peered intently at the stone. Despite its dubious ancestry, it was still a pretty thing of iridescent blues and purples. “But someone must still have commissioned its manufacture. And there can’t be that many places that could make something like this. If we can find out who made it, they should have a record of who commissioned it.”

  “Unless it was made by fae in parts unknown,” Hetta pointed out. When Marius looked downcast, she added, “But it’s still an excellent thought. I’m inclined to think Gwendelfear wasn’t involved with the fake Stone, and in any case, it can’t do any harm to pursue that line of inquiry.”

  “I wish we could send it to cousin Caro.” Marius set the Stone down on Hetta’s desk. “She’s the chemist, not I.”

  “Well,” said Hetta, patting his arm consolingly, “if we should find an unknown plant that looks like a clue, I shall know precisely who to turn to for their extensive botanical knowledge.”

  Marius rolled his eyes at her levity. “But if we send it to Caro, we’ll have to explain the whole mess.”

  “We’re going to have to explain it at some point,” Hetta said with some reluctance.

  But Marius was already shaking his head. “In any case, I know someone else from my time down in Knoxbridge who should do just as well. Better, perhaps, since his family is in the manufacturing business.”

  Hetta gave him an approving look. “Why, Marius, you dark horse. I didn’t know you had connections with tradesmen! You must be careful with whom you associate.” She tried to imitate Aunt Sybil’s tones and was rewarded with a brief smile. It faded too quickly, and she wished she knew what was at the bottom of all this melancholy. “Are you well, Marius? You seem…distracted, lately.” Should she tell him about the blackmail attempt?

  “I’m fine,” he said, though his expression made a lie of his words. She knew he wanted her to drop the subject. She thought about pressing him on the matter, but he looked so miserable that she couldn’t find it in her heart to do so. Instead, she surprised them both by rising and clasping her arms around him in a brief hug.

  “Well, if you ever find that you are not fine, I’m here with a sympathetic ear.”

  For a moment, she thought he wavered, on the brink of releasing whatever was tormenting him, but then she felt him withdraw. “No need to get sappy, Hetta, or I’ll begin to wonder if you are quite well,” he said with false brightness.

  She gave him a Look that she hoped conveyed that she could see through his facade, so he might as well tell her what it was about anyway. He ignored it and took his leave.

  She spent an unsatisfactory hour with Mr Fisk, who didn’t at all favour her proposal to even talk with the bank manager. “Risky business, loans,” he said in an authoritative way.

  “Well, I don’t see how else we are to finance the expenditure that Stariel needs.” Again, she suffered from a flicker of conscience. Ought she to be planning such outlays? But again, she consoled herself with the thought that she was only doing what was necessary, and she hadn’t done anything irreversible yet. She would make Jack see that, if and when he succeeded her. It would save time to have inquiries already in motion. “And although there is certainly risk attached, I believe it to be a manageable one, with careful planning. It’s not as if the estate produces no income, and the advice I have sought on the matter makes me certain that investing in Stariel in such a way is the only way to assure its future. The estate has been woefully neglected for decades now.”

  “Lord Henry—” Mr Fisk began.

  “Spent money on trinkets like new kineticars while the cottages are badly in need of re-roofing, the house still isn’t elektrified, and the shepherds are complaining that no money’s been spent on new breeding stock in so long that our sheep are practically living fossils,” she said tartly.

  Mr Fisk scowled.

  “In any case, there can be no harm in merely meeting with someone from the bank.”

  “If such expenditures are warranted, then why not sell the eastern flats to Penharrow? That would go a good way towards new roofs and suchlike, without the need for a loan.”

  “I am not selling my inheritance.” That, at least, was a point she was sure any successor would agree on.

  Mr Fisk tried his best to persuade her, and eventually she grew quite short with the man. “If I’m reluctant to take your advice, consider that it is you who have acted as steward of this estate during its decline. Why should I trust your instinct to steer us out of it again?”

  The steward drew himself up to his full height, affronted. Since he wasn’t any taller than Hetta, this wasn’t especially impressive, a fact that seemed only to annoy him further.

  “I have served Stariel in good faith for years. Your father placed utmost trust in me—”

  “Oh, get out!” She rose. “You’ve put me in a temper, and I’ll say something I regret unless you take yourself away this instant.”

  Bristling like an angry cat, he left. Hetta slumped back into her seat, abruptly ashamed of herself. Although, on the brighter side, she might have made life easier for her successor, since Mr Fisk would likely welcome them with open arms. The thought stung. Telling herself not to be so melancholy, she briskly put her papers back into their neat piles and made her way downstairs and out of the house, pausing only to don suitable outerwear.

  She reached for Stariel as she walked, trying to settle her own restlessness, but the land was discontent too. She wondered if she ought to forgive some of Jack’s bad moods—he was more sensitive to Stariel than she, and if he’d been living with the land’s growing unease at its lordless state, then it went some way towards explaining his grouchiness. They couldn’t go on like this indefinitely, even if Jack hadn’t set his arbitrary deadline. She wasn’t sure whether the thought was a cheering or depressing one.

  30

  Alverness

  Time passed in a mixture of sudden jolts and long, drawn-out hours. A strange atmosphere had fallen over Stariel House, an increasing sense of urgency and dread. Gwendelfear couldn’t be kept a prisoner at Stariel forever; Stariel couldn’t remain lordless. Hetta and Marius waited for the inquiries they had set in motion to bear fruit. Ja
ck was often absent, roaming the foothills of the Indigoes in search of star indigo. Aunt Sybil worried over him as the weather turned colder, and Wyn spent an inordinate amount of time listening to her expanding on the subject and following her orders for preparing warming broths. Alexandra got into an argument with Gregory about Gwendelfear, with the result that Gregory took himself off to a friend’s house for several days. Lady Phoebe fluttered around her children and managed to get a seething Alexandra occupied with preparing stall goods for the upcoming Frost Faire.

  By the time Hetta’s outing with Angus rolled around, she was eager for an escape from the strained atmosphere, but somewhat worried that she’d gotten in over her head with the neighbouring lord. Her conscience told her it probably wasn’t a very good idea to flirt with someone who didn’t know she would soon be leaving the district under a cloud of scandal.

  Angus’s reaction when he saw her made it hard to regret it very much though.

  “Hetta,” Angus said warmly at the sight of her. “You’ll set hearts afire in Alverness.”

  She did look lovely. She’d even allowed herself some tactical use of illusion to make her hair shinier than usual. She did a little twirl, the layers of her pink dress making a satisfying swishing noise.

  “Thank you.” She smiled. “So do you.” Angus did indeed look very well in his formal dress. His coat was well fitted and highlighted the broadness of his shoulders. She couldn’t help some rapid mental speculation as to what he might look like divested of said coat, and then had to tell herself off sternly.

  “We’d better take our leave, or we’ll be late,” Angus said to Aunt Sybil, who unbent a little in the face of such well-dressed masculinity and bade them an almost warm farewell as she shepherded them out of the entrance hall. Hetta spotted little Laurel peering down from the main stair landing above, her eyes huge and entranced. She almost waved but caught herself at the last minute. Laurel definitely wasn’t supposed to be there and would not appreciate Aunt Sybil’s attention being drawn to her presence.