Hemmed in Silver (Songs of the Amaranthine Book 5)

by Forthright

  Hemmed in Silver

  Songs of the Amaranthine, 5

  Hemmed in Silver

  Copyright © 2020 by FORTHRIGHT

  ISBN: 978-1-63123-073-8

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored, or shared in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior permission of the author. Which is a slightly more officious way of saying what I’ve always asked. Play fair. Be nice. But by all means, have fun! ::twinkle::

  TWINKLE PRESS

  FORTHWRITES.COM

  because belonging is a kind of magic

  Table of Contents

  Plea

  Risk

  Change

  Brave

  Come

  Room

  Gruel

  Hide

  Milk

  View

  School

  Quill

  Dish

  Child

  Tray

  Hire

  Leaf

  Waltz

  Once

  Sire

  Sulk

  Dress

  Patch

  Change

  Stile

  Song

  Pact

  Lit

  Trap

  Twice

  Frost

  Stay

  Kin

  Thrice

  Plea

  “Is it important?” inquired Thrussel.

  Wyn left off his fifth reread to blandly reply, “Most letters hand-delivered by heralds are. How did this even find me?”

  “Discreet channels.”

  “Am I found, then?”

  “No, Wyn. We songbirds have our own way of making sure letters reach their intended recipients.” He touched Wyn’s arm. “It was passed from dove to ptarmigan to warbler before arriving in our vicinity. Someone remembered Lord Alderney having a little place by the name, and I offered to see it delivered. None the wiser.”

  “Surprising, really.” Wyn grimaced at the envelope, which bore scant postage and several notes in different hands suggesting possible locales. “Not much to go on.”

  Mister Godwyn Outler

  Merritt House

  “It is yours, though? You are the intended recipient?”

  “Dismal day.” He sighed. “We’ll convene in the kitchen. Stay for tea, Thrussel. There’ll have to be a reply.”

  “Too kind,” murmured the herald.

  Raising his voice, Wyn called, “Pennythwaite?”

  His oldest friend stepped into the room, one finger in the ledger book he’d likely been updating. With a faint frown, Pennythwaite nodded a greeting in Thrussel’s direction.

  “Is Sonnet here?” asked Wyn.

  “Close enough to summon.”

  Wyn rumpled his hair distractedly “May as well call Triggs and Beck, too. This affects all of us.”

  Lingering long enough to smooth Wyn’s unruly thatch, Pennythwaite acknowledged his request. “The kitchen.”

  Wyn scanned the letter again. Sure, and it was trouble. He almost wished Thrussel had left it to gather dust in whatever bin they used to collect undeliverable letters. But the plea it contained brought back good memories of old vows. And a pact he couldn’t ignore.

  By the time he followed the pokey back hall to the kitchen, they were all assembled.

  Pennythwaite, who counted him as a nestmate, despite the trouble it might cause if anyone of consequence found out.

  Sonnet, a third-generation dog who liked to think of himself as a lone wolf.

  Triggs, one of Lord Alderney’s several sons, who was responsible for the dairy barn.

  And Beck, the cheerful strutter in charge of their chicken coop and hatchery.

  Wyn tossed the letter onto the table. “A boy wrote to me, thinking I’m his uncle.”

  “Are you?” asked Sonnet, his tail already wagging.

  Reaching for the missive, Pennythwaite murmured, “You do realize how long Wyn’s been here?”

  Sonnet tapped a few fingers, then shrugged. “You’re the mathy one.”

  “Technically, the boy isn’t a blood relation, even though we share a name.”

  “Alfred Outler.” Pennythwaite looked up sharply. “And Hazel Outler.”

  “They’re newly orphaned, and the lad’s desperate to find someone to take them in. If he can’t sort it soon, they’ll separate him from his sister.”

  Triggs folded his big hands together and quietly asked, “Why do you consider their problems your own?”

  “He mentions names. I don’t know his father, but I recognize his grandfather’s name. Alfred is Darren’s great-great-great-grandson. We vowed out together, swore a pact, and took the same surname.” Spreading his hands wide, Wyn put it the only way he needed to. “They’re what’s left of my clan. My kin.”

  “When you say children, are we talking bottles and nappies?” asked Beck.

  Pennythwaite passed him the letter. “Alfred is fourteen. His sister is four.”

  Sonnet crooned a sorrowful note. The softie.

  “We keep to ourselves, but there’s the rest of the cooperative to consider,” said Triggs.

  Wyn nodded. “If we can come to terms, I’ll go to your father next. Or … I’ll have to leave. At least until they’ve grown enough to make their own way.”

  “No,” said Pennythwaite.

  “This is your home,” agreed Sonnet, looking anxiously from face to face.

  Slowly, everyone in the room shifted into a cautiously receptive posture. Even Triggs, who usually wanted more time to consider before making big decisions.

  “A pact is a pact,” said Beck, already smiling again. “Uncle Wyn.”

  Risk

  From his hilltop home, Northrop Hall, Tristan Alderney managed a cluster of secluded farms in Yoxall. He was known throughout the area as a fair-minded and levelheaded man. His tenants called him lord, though he wasn’t a member of the peerage. Some out of respect. Some because they knew he owned the title as leader of his clan.

  Lord Alderney listened to Wyn without comment, then held out his hand for the letter. “You intend to adopt?”

  “I thought we could just take them in?” Wyn shrugged. “Can’t we do it unofficially?”

  “Abducting orphans?” He shook his head. “I know a solicitor who can smooth the way, but there will be paperwork. Your existence will become documented.”

  Something Wyn preferred to avoid. “Won’t that cause trouble for the cooperative?”

  After several moments, Lord Alderney said, “I think not. We disguise our differences and mingle freely with humans in the area. Bringing in two more could be considered … community enrichment.”

  Wyn was still worried. “There will be a paper trail connecting me to you. And I’m not supposed to have any contact with the Amaranthine.”

  “You aren’t the only one bending rules. Our cooperative is unlisted and unaffiliated with the reaver community.” Lord Alderney smiled tightly. “Most of us have one reason or another for avoiding notice.”

  Pennythwaite weighed in. “The risks are minimal. If the In-between was interested in you, Wyn, they wouldn’t have let you go.”

  Triggs asked, “The children are unendowed?”

  “Seems likely,” said Wyn. “They’re part of the general populace. Would there be anything left of Darren’s bloodline after four generations?”

  “We’ll know once the dears are here,” said Sonnet.

  Beck chortled. “Harboring another unregistered reaver? No complaints here. My flock dotes on Wyn.”
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br />   “Are you resolved?” asked Lord Alderney. “I’ll put through a call.”

  “A pact is a pact.” Turning to Thrussel, Wyn asked, “Will you carry a message?”

  “Gladly,” pledged the herald. “As many as you need.”

  Wyn kept it short. We are farmers living a quiet life. Nothing fancy, but there’s room. Once we sort the legal bits, bring your sister and make your home with us.

  Change

  Wyn had always considered his study a peaceful place. A sanctuary filled with creature comforts. So it was unsettling to have Triggs and Sonnet stampede through, pointing out how many dangers to small children he kept around.

  Matchboxes. Decanters. Even the chunk of crystal he used as a doorstop was called into question, since one of its edges was keen enough to cut.

  Pennythwaite recommended adding doors to the lower bookcases in order to protect precious volumes. Wyn, who was getting more frazzled by the day, asked if they couldn’t just put locks on their doors, keeping the little girl out until she was old enough to understand that certain rooms in the house were private.

  Triggs took two days to install squat fences around the fireplaces in every room.

  Beck stole every lamp and candle stand. Too tippy. Wall mounts and ceiling hooks were apparently safer.

  “Dismal day,” muttered Wyn. “How clumsy can one child be?”

  “Better safe than sorry,” Triggs said philosophically.

  When Pennythwaite called them for dinner, he sounded strange. Strained.

  Concerned, Wyn hurried to the kitchen, only to draw up short. Triggs showed up a moment later and with a surprised grunt, backed into the corner. Pennythwaite was clearly holding himself in check, a sure sign he was thoroughly flustered.

  Beck sauntered in and swore. “Sonnet, what are you doing?”

  “Getting ready for our children.”

  Gesturing widely, Beck squawked, “You’re in a dress!”

  “Well, I was thinking.” Sonnet calmly slid a platter and a covered dish onto the table. “They’re children. They’ll need mothering.”

  Wyn couldn’t have been more confused. Sonnet had traded his usual attire for a female’s embroidered tunic, a full skirt, and an apron.

  Beck weakly repeated, “You’re in a dress.”

  “A little girl in a houseful of males? She’ll need a chaperone. Someone to teach her how to be ladylike.”

  Triggs finally spoke. “I cannot deny you’re the most qualified.”

  Sonnet beamed at him.

  Nobody seemed willing to point out that Sonnet was still male under his skirt. Wyn shot a pleading look in Pennythwaite’s direction. Normally, he would be the one to speak up. He had seniority.

  Pennythwaite finally asked, “Can you do it?”

  “I am quite set upon it.” Sonnet gave a little shimmy as he adjusted some mysterious undergarment. “It’s only for a decade or two. Five at most.”

  Wyn had to admit that for an Amaranthine, a few decades amounted to a short-term commitment.

  “So be it.” Pennythwaite indicated them each in turn. “Uncle Wyn is the head of this household. I am his man of business. Sonnet is our live-in cook. Triggs and Beck are hirelings, which is why you live separately.”

  To make room for the children, Triggs and Beck had cleared out, moving their belongings across the yard, into a tiny house surrounded by wizened apple trees. They would still share all their meals in Sonnet’s kitchen, but living apart already felt strange.

  “Cozy Cottage,” said Sonnet. “We’ll call it Cozy Cottage.”

  “Appropriate,” conceded Pennythwaite.

  Wyn thought it cutesy, but he could understand why it might appeal to his friends. Triggs and Beck belonged to clans whose animal counterparts had been domesticated. Always living in and around human communities, their histories intertwined—close, comfortable, cooperative.

  Collectively, they were known as the cozy clans.

  Brave

  Alfie didn’t like people pawing through his parents’ belongings, deciding all on their own if something was worth keeping. Even though he couldn’t bring himself to speak out, it wound him up inside. Already half-mad with missing, he was half-wild with fear when a reply to his letter finally arrived.

  “Truly?” he whispered, though he shouldn’t have expected a postie to know.

  “Alfred, are you safe?” the man asked instead. “You and Hazel?”

  “That lot.” Alfie jutted his chin toward the back of the flat. “They’re from the church. Trying to be helpful since we can’t stay here. Good people, but ….”

  “Not your people?” suggested the man.

  Alfie hunched his shoulders and looked away.

  “As long as you’re safe?” Intent. Insistent.

  “So far.” Clutching the letter, Alfie asked, “This a good place?”

  “Do you like the countryside?”

  “Not sure. Never been.”

  “Well, this should prove an adventure.” More quietly, the man asked, “May I pop around with reports? It might be odd hours, but you wouldn’t need to let me in.”

  Alfie took a closer look. He was a wispy fellow, barely taller than himself, with reddish-brown hair and a dusting of freckles. Large, dark eyes were soft, as was his smile. Kind of pretty for a man, but he probably took after his mum or something. “You’re not a postie, are you?”

  “I do work for a kind of courier service, but I’m a friend of the family. My people are from Yoxall, same as your uncle.” And with a genteel flourish, he said, “You may call me Thrussel.”

  “Alfie.” He thrust out his hand. It was meant for a handshake, but maybe he just needed to make sure this messenger wasn’t a figment of his imagination.

  The hand that gripped his was solid and warm. As was the second hand that came up to double the clasp.

  “What’s my uncle like?” Alfie dared to ask.

  “Like you, I should think.” Thrussel gave his hand a small pat. “Brave.”

  Come

  Thrussel always managed to appear when Alfie was alone. The messages were short, but they eased his mind. He could keep Hazel. That’s all that mattered, really. The rest would sort itself out somehow.

  A light rap on his window sent him hurrying to undo the latch.

  More than once, Thrussel had turned up on the fire escape outside Alfie’s window. Calm as you please, despite being three stories above a dingy alley. But usually after dark. It was mid-afternoon, and their minder had gone to the market.

  “For you,” said Thrussel, offering a fold of paper.

  Like all of Uncle’s messages, it was brief. Not many can find Merritt House, but Thrussel knows the way. Come and be welcome.

  “Shall we?” asked Thrussel.

  “Now?” Alfie asked in disbelief. “Just … leave?”

  “You finished packing, didn’t you?”

  He nodded.

  “May I?” Thrussel eased between sash and sill. “Where is your sister?”

  “Napping.”

  “I’ll let in the porters. They’ll take your trunks. Point out anything else you want to keep.”

  Alfie hesitated. “Can we do that? Go off without a word?”

  “Why not? You’re Wyn’s now.” Thrussel showed him another envelope. “We’ll leave notice.”

  Twenty minutes later, Alfie, Hazel, and a modest collection of boxes, baggage, and furnishings were leaving London by lorry.

  After a long day of driving, Alfie was more than a little confused when they turned into a lot in a nondescript village.

  “This is a rental,” explained Thrussel. “Help Triggs shift everything?”

  So Alfie toted boxes to an honest-to-goodness ox cart, where one of the fellows who’d manhandled furniture down their apartment building’s narrow stairwell was checking harnesses.

  “I thought the lorry was yours,” Alfie admitted.

  “No. This rig is, though.” He offered his hand palm-up. “Triggs. I’m one of the farmhand
s at your uncle’s place.”

  Thrussel, who swept past with Hazel in his arms, slyly added, “He’s too shy to say so, but Triggs is part of your new family.”

  “And you came for us.” Alfie awkwardly shook hands and mumbled, “Thanks, sir.”

  “Just Triggs.” His voice was deep and smooth, and his smile was lazy. “And these two are Riff and Raff. We’re pleased to finally meet you.”

  While Thrussel showed off Hazel to a pair of gigantic bulls, Triggs taught Alfie how to tie the knots that would hold everything together for the last leg of their journey.

  “Is it far?”

  “Far and farther.” Triggs smiled to himself and quietly added, “That’s one of its charms.”

  Room

  Between Thrussel and Triggs, Alfie had stopped mentally rehearsing all the terrible things that were meant to happen to orphans. The men were flat-out nice. Surely, they wouldn’t be working for a wicked man. Still, when the ox cart rolled to a stop before a stone house with skinny windows and squat chimneys, Alfie had to own he was nervous.

  A man stepped outside and lifted one hand in a weird gesture that turned into an awkward wave. “Alfie and Hazel,” he said, searching their faces. “I’m your Uncle Wyn.”

  Alfie had sort of been expecting an old man. Why was that? Maybe because the papers had seemed old-fashioned.

  The church people had gone through all the files, searching for any mention of relatives. A packet in the family safe had yielded the only possibility—Godwyn Outler. His name had been written alongside Darren Outler’s, and that was their grandad’s name. A postcard tucked between the pages had included the notation “in care of Merritt House.”

  It was all he’d had to go on.

  It had worked.

  Alfie had assumed Wyn was his dad’s uncle, but the man before them looked younger than Dad had been. And nothing like him.

  Thick waves of black hair. Pale skin and light eyes. Nothing like Alfie and Hazel, who’d inherited their dad’s easy tan and straight hair.