Hemmed in Silver (Songs of the Amaranthine Book 5)

by Forthright

  Uncle Wyn also dressed strangely, in close-fitting pants, high boots, and a posh-looking tunic with fancy stitching around the collar. Was it a country fashion?

  “Come inside,” urged their new guardian. “Sonnet’s been cooking since yesterday. I hope you’re hungry.”

  Alfie was barely through the door when he was swept into a hug. It was embarrassing and confusing, but also reassuring. They were welcome.

  “I’m Sonnet. I get to be the cook.”

  “Alfie,” he managed.

  She was quite tall for a woman, with an eager smile and unusual eyes. A brown so light, it was near to yellow. Gray streaked through Sonnet’s pinned hair, but her face was unlined.

  Leaning back to study his face, Sonnet announced, “I’ve read up on orphans. You haven’t been oppressed, have you?”

  “No, marm.”

  “What about aspirations? The ones with expectations usually fare a little better than the rest.” Sonnet seemed eager to assist.

  “Couldn’t say, marm. I’m new to the whole orphan thing.”

  “Oh, you dear.” She hugged him hard, sniffed his hair, and kissed his cheek. “I’m new to this myself. We’ll muddle through together.”

  He found himself blushing under her gaze. “Thanks, marm.”

  “Sonnet,” she insisted. “And what’s this? Hazel, you’re not a baby at all! Why, you’re a big girl!”

  Giggling at being swept up into Sonnet’s arms, Hazel asked, “Auntie?”

  “No, no. I’m all alone, you see. A loner. But you must tell me! What do you love to eat? I’m the cook, you know.”

  While Hazel happily listed puddings and jellies and biscuits, Wyn touched Alfie’s elbow to get his attention. “Here is Pennythwaite.”

  This fellow looked respectable enough, with a pressed white shirt, black tie, and old-fashioned sleeve protectors that might’ve been borrowed from Bob Cratchit. His vest was a gentle golden color, lustrous like the metal, and spectacles perched precariously atop a hook nose.

  “Welcome to Merritt House, Alfie.” His voice was deep and sonorous, his enunciation precise.

  Alfie suspected this man would be strict. He’d better look sharp and learn the rules of the house.

  Only when the man turned to go did Alfie realize that Pennythwaite’s pale brown hair hung in a thick plait almost to his knees. Odd, that.

  Wyn had begun following Pennythwaite out, but stopped partway when he realized Alfie hadn’t moved.

  “Where did Thrussel go?” Alfie asked, unsettled that the most familiar face was gone.

  “Back to his post.” Uncle Wyn beckoned encouragingly. “I’ll take you into Yoxall tomorrow, show you where to find him. He’s a good friend to have.”

  Placated, Alfie followed his uncle and Pennythwaite upstairs and into a boxy bedroom with a mattress on the floor instead of on a bedframe. He’d always assumed that sleeping on the floor was a shabby sort of thing, but the blankets and pillows looked clean and soft. Even expensive, given the abundance of snowy white and shimmering gold.

  “Not what you’re used to,” his uncle guessed. “But there’s no way for your sister to fall out of bed. Or to wake up alone in a strange place. We can change things around later, but we thought that for now, it would be better for you to keep her close.”

  “It’s good,” he managed. “Thanks.”

  “Triggs will bring up your things. Help you arrange them.”

  Alfie could only nod and repeat himself.

  Uncle Wyn looked up at Pennythwaite, who stood really close and really quiet. But with the slight inclination of his head, Uncle relaxed into a smile. “Anything you need, lad.”

  “We’ll be fine,” Alfie mumbled.

  “You will be fine,” Uncle Wyn asserted. “I’ll see to it.”

  Gruel

  Alfie was getting along fairly well, all things considered. Hazel adored Sonnet, who seemed to expect to look after his sister. Which freed him up to pitch in. Triggs and Beck were decent about showing him around, explaining what needed doing. Alfie tried his hand at everything.

  Dairy barn. Creamery.

  Hen house. Hatchery.

  The farm was big enough to keep everyone busy. Sonnet tended the door garden. Uncle and Beck handled fieldwork. Triggs walked the cows to and from their pasture and milked them, morning and evening. The work never stopped, but everything proceeded at an easy pace.

  Alfie liked it. Even though things were … different.

  There was no television, no automobile, no kitchen appliances. The house wasn’t even wired for electricity. At least they had indoor plumbing, thanks in part to a well and a windmill.

  Other things seemed a bit off, but Alfie couldn’t be entirely sure. He was a city boy. What did he know about cows and chickens? Only he’d never known they could get so big. Some of Beck’s hens were tall enough to pick Alfie’s pockets. And the six milk cows Triggs devoted his time to were even bigger than Riff and Raff, who pulled their deliveries of milk, butter, and cheese into Yoxall.

  There were other things. Littler than livestock, but just as strange.

  Like Pennythwaite’s obsession with bird feeders. Half of Uncle Wyn’s trips into town seemed to be for the seed needed to keep the local songbirds happy.

  Nights were full of strange noises, courtesy of all the owls in the forest beyond the fields. Their hooting kept Alfie awake the first few nights.

  Sonnet had a second sense when it came to fire in the house. Alfie would have sworn that she knew the instant he struck a match, for she’d always pop in to check on him.

  Actually, Sonnet may have been the strangest of strange things at Merritt House. She told queer stories at bedtime, like “The Sunshower and the Rainbow” or “The Angel and the Tump.” And she kept mixing up the meaning of words, almost as if she’d never had anything to do with things Alfie would have considered ordinary.

  Like at breakfast just this morning.

  Same as always, Alfie had come down to find his uncle and Pennythwaite already at the table—both quiet, both comfortable.

  “Good morning, Alfie.” Sonnet ladled something into a bowl. “Come, eat your gruel!”

  Uncle Wyn frowned. “Gruel?”

  “Yes, yes! According to books, it’s what orphans eat.”

  “You plan to raise them in the Dickensian style?” Pennythwaite inquired blandly.

  “Well, not exactly,” Sonnet countered huffily. “Only the good parts.”

  “Like … gruel?” asked Uncle Wyn, his lips twitching.

  Alfie wasn’t sure where to look, there were so many glances darting about the room. None of them meant for him. He confined himself to a wary, “Thank you.”

  He knew a bit about gruel, though not from personal experience. It was meant to be miserly slop, thin and horrid. Poor sustenance for poor beggars. But the bowl Sonnet set before him was the farthest thing from meager.

  Thick as custard. Spiced to a treat. Sonnet had romanticized gruel into a pudding. The stuff was lovely with strong tea. He paused long enough to mumble around mouthful. “I like it.”

  She was at his side in a twinkling, ladling more into his bowl. And he was glad to accept. Only … that’s when he caught sight of it.

  Alfie would swear upon the family Bible that something was swishing from under the hem of her full skirt. And that something was a tail—brown fur, tipped in gray. Plain as anything. And wagging.

  Pennythwaite cleared his throat.

  Sonnet backed away, flustered.

  Uncle Wyn sloshed his tea and launched into a discourse on pumpkins, but there was an edge of nervousness to his voice. He trailed off, and the kitchen itself seemed to hold its breath.

  That’s when Alfie made up his mind.

  This wasn’t a normal sort of place, but it was a good place. Strange and silly and safe. He’d do anything to stay, even if it meant pretending. So he looked Uncle Wyn right in the eye and said, “You should try the gruel. It’s good.”

  “Sure about that
?” he managed faintly.

  “Never had better.” Alfie nodded to Sonnet and added, “Hazel will love it.”

  She brightened, and Uncle Wyn probably should have tried a little harder to hide his relief. They were ready to pretend right along with him. Only Pennythwaite had a sharpish look in his eye. But the man of business simply inclined his head. And accepted a bowl of gruel.

  Hide

  “Well?” asked Wyn. “I know you’ve been testing the waters. Are they deep?”

  Pennythwaite set aside his book and beckoned. “Stop pacing. Sit down.”

  Just to be contrary, Wyn flopped onto the settee opposite Pennythwaite’s.

  Without comment, his friend stood, circled the low table with its orderly stacks of leaflets and communiques, and sat at Wyn’s side. “Why are you out of sorts?”

  Wyn stated the obvious. “He saw.”

  “He did.”

  “Was he frightened?”

  Pennythwaite sighed. “Sonnet certainly was.”

  “Alfie, though.” Wyn waved an arm in the general direction of the kitchen. “Have we lost trust before properly finding it?”

  “You’ll have to ask Sonnet about scents. He’ll know.”

  “She’ll know,” corrected Wyn. They needed to get used to referring to their friend as a female.

  Pennythwaite inclined his head. “She will.”

  “Well?” All the uncertainties and unforeseen consequences had his insides in knots.

  “Alfie’s reserves are meager.” He removed his glasses and a handkerchief from some inner pocket. Polishing the lenses, he calmly added, “With proper care, he might gain.”

  Wyn thought back. “We never were much. Darren ranked even lower than me.”

  “Did your friend have an aptitude?”

  “Nothing to speak of. It’s why we vowed out.”

  Pennythwaite peered at him with large, liquid black eyes. “A shame he wasn’t cultivated by someone of superior patience and foresight.”

  Wyn’s lips quirked. “Like yourself?”

  “Like me.” He resettled his glasses and carefully refolded the handkerchief. “You acquired no official classification, but surely there were preferences … aspirations … perhaps some inherent aptitude of lineage?”

  “Darren found work in the Kith shelters because he loved animals.”

  “And you …?”

  Wyn laughed. “Just a farmer, same as now. But in daydreams, I was an ephemerologist.”

  Pennythwaite fussed with Wyn’s hair. “Chasing fairy lights?” he teased.

  It was an old joke. A fond memory. Wyn relaxed under the friendly fussing that both his unruly hair and Pennythwaite had always needed. “We applied together to several enclaves, but those places have minimum requirements. Hard workers aren’t wanted if they’ll only bring down the bloodlines.”

  “Statistics aren’t everything.”

  Wyn knew that. Now.

  Minutes passed before Pennythwaite quietly remarked, “There is the girl.”

  “Her name is Hazel.”

  “And she is lovely.”

  Something froze inside Wyn.

  Pennythwaite went on. “I’ll be asking Lord Alderney to ward our boundaries with greater care.”

  “Is she especially potent?”

  “No, but she’ll attract Ephemera.”

  Wyn couldn’t help blurting, “Do I?”

  Pennythwaite blinked down on him. “Are you asking me to compare you?”

  “Not sure. Maybe.” Wyn tried to be casual about it. “Is she more the thing?”

  His oldest friend blinked some more. “Are you jealous?”

  “Considering it.”

  Pennythwaite’s tone was gently chiding. “She is a chick in the nest.”

  “A lovely one. Who will grow up.”

  “And until such time, she is in our care.” In a rare show of affection, Pennythwaite kissed Wyn’s forehead. “Hazel will flourish and fly away, and we will remain.”

  Reassured, he asked, “Will we need to ward her?”

  “Sigils for now. Perhaps a necklace at Christmastide?”

  Oh. He hadn’t considered that. “We’ll have to mark human holidays, won’t we?”

  “Sonnet will enjoy that.”

  “Can we leave that to him?” Wyn wondered aloud.

  Pennythwaite hooted softly in amusement. “We can leave it to her.”

  Milk

  Eighteen-year-old Alfie was halfway to Yoxall before he realized he’d walked away from his work without a word. But he needed to talk to someone, and not someone from Merritt House. That would be too awkward. And lead to certain admissions. Which left Thrussel.

  Yoxall wasn’t much of a town. Most of the shops did one thing and did it well—candles, bread, cloth, cheese. The fresh market operated according to rules that still baffled Alfie, since there was nothing like it in his old neighborhood. Best he could tell, the whole community treated it like their pantry, dropping off and picking up stuff without a single note or coin trading hands.

  The biggest building along the square was mostly a tavern, but there was a counter just inside the door where people could collect letters and parcels.

  Thrussel took one look at Alfie’s face and lost his near-perpetual smile. Murmuring something to a co-worker, he left his post. “This is unexpected.”

  Alfie nodded.

  “Did you walk?”

  Another nod.

  Thrussel reached for him but held back. “Something happen out your way?”

  Now that he was here, Alfie had no idea what to say.

  “Join me for a meal?” His friend indicated the tavern’s dining area.

  Alfie nodded again.

  From a large pot that always seemed to be simmering on the back of the stove, the taverner ladled two bowls of hearty stew. Loaves of bread. Fresh butter. Strong tea. Molasses biscuits. Alfie worked his way through most of it before mustering the courage to make a start.

  “Do you know how long Sonnet’s worked for my Uncle?”

  Thrussel slid his hands around his mug. “Seems like always.”

  “Is she from here?” Alfie was really only curious on this point. “Have family in the area?”

  “Sonnet’s always claimed to be a loner.” Thrussel chuckled. “Sonnet may be the only person who believes that, but there’s no harm in the notion.”

  Alfie smiled a little, but it faded fast.

  “Did something happen, Alfie?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And it’s upset you?” Thrussel’s gaze had gone soft with sympathy.

  “Hazel has a new kitten. We’re pretty sure she smuggled it from Lord Alderney’s stables.”

  His friend hummed encouragingly.

  Alfie said, “Sonnet seems … concerned?”

  “What gave you that idea?”

  “Earlier. Round back in the garden. I was close enough to hear. Sonnet was … scolding the kitten, I think. Talking like it could understand every word. And she was growling.”

  “You must have been downwind.”

  Alfie had to think on it. “Maybe. I didn’t notice.”

  “Has Sonnet lost your trust?”

  He slowly shook his head. “It’s not that.”

  “What then?”

  Alfie could feel color creeping into his face. “I was actually wondering if I should be worried about the cat. If Sonnet was that riled, do you suppose it’s a threat?”

  Thrussel’s laughter was always nice. Musical.

  Signaling the taverner for a fresh pot of tea, Thrussel eyed Alfie curiously. “You’re worried about the kitten?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Do you know if it’s male or female?”

  “Female. Hazel named her Milk.”

  “Because she has white fur?” guessed Thrussel.

  “No. She’s a ginger tabby.” Alfie offered a half-smile. “According to Hazel, it’s what she wanted to be called.”

  Thrussel reached across the table, placing h
is hand a little way from Alfie’s. “I’m sure Sonnet and Milk were simply working out their differences. A matter of dominance, not danger.”

  “Oh.” Alfie reached for another biscuit. “That’s all right, then.”

  View

  On a swiftly-darkening October evening when Alfie was twenty, he caught a whiff of smoke from the direction of the barn. Sidetracked soon changed to stymied, for several of the cattle pens stood empty.

  Merritt House kept as many as sixteen cows in the big barn, but Triggs doted on six in particular. His ladies. Their pens even boasted hand-painted name plaques—Bell, Star, Rose, Lass, Meek, and Mild.

  Triggs was always chatting with them, and he absolutely hovered whenever one of them was close to calving. He’d allowed Alfie in their pens from the start, teaching their city-boy how to curry and how to care for cloven hooves. On quiet afternoons, they’d shampoo tails, polish horns, and shine the bells that made the ladies’ stroll to the far pasture so tuneful.

  Where could they be at this hour? Cow-napping seemed unlikely. Or was it cattle rustling? Alfie checked the rest of the pens. All but a handful were vacant.

  He was halfway to the door, intent on fetching Triggs, when he caught another whiff of the smoke that had first diverted him. Pipe tobacco? Alfie had only ever seen Uncle Wyn smoke in his study.

  Climbing the ladder to the loft, Alfie stood for a moment, breathing in the sweetness of summer hay and waiting to be noticed. The upper doors had been thrown wide, and his uncle stood with a shoulder propped against their frame, a trickle of smoke slowly rising from the bowl of his pipe.

  Wyn glanced his way. Acknowledgement.

  Alfie said, “You’re not supposed to bring any uncovered fire into the barn.” Triggs was a stickler about it.

  “I’m a careful man when it’s called for.”

  Everyone in the house had tidy habits. It was one of the things Alfie liked about Merritt House. He ventured, “Where’s Triggs?”

  “Away. Which is the only reason I haven’t been chastised and chased out.”

  Alfie eased closer. You could just see Cozy Cottage from this vantage, and there were no lights in the windows. Unusual in the extreme. “Where’s he gone?”