Hemmed in Silver (Songs of the Amaranthine Book 5)

by Forthright

  “Not far.”

  “Did he take the cows?”

  “He did.” Uncle Wyn puffed softly. “They love to dance.”

  Alfie lowered his gaze and tried to come up with an excuse to leave.

  His uncle spoke first. “Why do you never ask?”

  It took a fair while for Alfie to compose an answer. “I wouldn’t want to inconvenience anyone.”

  “Inconvenience?” Uncle Wyn echoed incredulously.

  “Yes, sir,” Alfie mumbled. “If I was too nosy or made trouble, I thought you might have to send us away. And I didn’t want that. Don’t want that.”

  “Very considerate of you.” His uncle studied him for a few moments. “You have made things easier for us.”

  “Good to know.”

  “You’re not afraid of our little secrets?”

  “No, sir.”

  “And you’re not curious?”

  Alfie hesitated. He’d been pretending not to see, but he did sometimes wonder. Settling for a shrug, he said, “Not if it’ll inconvenience you.”

  Uncle Wyn hummed. “You know, you’re old enough to go off somewhere. Make your own way. I know Pennythwaite’s offered to cover your tuition. More than once.”

  “If it’s all the same to you, sir, I’ll stay with Hazel.”

  “What about when she’s grown?”

  Alfie thought it should have been obvious. “I won’t leave her. It’s different if she wants to go.”

  “Say she does,” posed Uncle Wyn. “Then what will you do?”

  Ever since Alfie turned sixteen, Pennythwaite brought up boarding schools and universities exactly twice a year. Always at midsummer and midwinter. He and Uncle were incredibly generous, but Alfie always refused.

  Uncle gently pressed, “Is there anything you want to do?”

  “Yes, sir.” He shuffled his feet. “I’d like to stay on.”

  His uncle was frowning. That might be a bad sign. Alfie’s heart began to thud at the thought of being turned out.

  Finally, Uncle Wyn asked, “Are you hoping to inherit this place? It’s not ours, you know. Not really. We rent from Lord Alderney.”

  “I know that. It’s nothing like that.” Alfie hardly knew where to look. “It’s just … this is home.”

  “So you’re staying,” his uncle said, like it was settled. “Best take a look then.”

  “Sir?”

  Uncle Wyn pointed with the stem of his pipe. Out into the night. Out beyond fields full of ripening pumpkins. “Stand here, lad.”

  A heavy orange moon was lifting in the eastern sky, a lovely sight all on its own. But in the nearer distance, lights winked and wove. “What’s that, then?”

  “Some say they’re fairy lights.”

  Sonnet certainly loved spinning fairy tales, but Uncle’s tone suggested these weren’t. Recalling his offhand comment, Alfie asked, “Is it a dance?”

  “I’ve tried a few times to see firsthand, but the way in is well hidden. So I watch from here. It’s best to keep to a safe distance, anyhow.”

  “Because it’s dangerous?”

  “Bah. Nothing like that.” Uncle Wyn’s smile was entirely fond. “It’s because they’re shy.”

  School

  Alfie was technically too old for lessons, but he still spent part of his afternoons sitting across from Hazel, reading whatever book Uncle Wyn had recommended while his sister applied herself to Pennythwaite’s curriculum.

  It was always intriguing, especially when Sonnet tried to be helpful. Between the two ladies of Merritt House, it was difficult to say which was more amusing.

  “We have an icebox,” exclaimed Hazel.

  “We do.” Sonnet paused at feeding the fire in their big iron stove, atop which an enamel kettle bubbled and steamed. “How else would we keep things cold?”

  “But it’s summer. There’s no ice in summer.”

  Sonnet stood and brushed at her skirt. “We send for it, of course.”

  “From where?”

  Alfie thought it was a good question. They lived so far from the nearest city, blocks of ice would surely melt before the oxen could amble their way to Yoxall. Now he was curious, as well.

  “Well, I don’t handle the orders. Pennythwaite takes care of those things for us.” She pursed her lips and crossed to the squat box in the corner. Peering inside and sniffing, she nodded to herself. “Iceland, I should think.”

  Ice from Iceland. Alfie wasn’t sure if she was making it up because she didn’t know … or if they really did get a twice-weekly shipment from some distant glacier.

  Maybe Thrussel would know.

  Maybe he shouldn’t ask.

  Quill

  Of all Hazel’s many lessons, Alfie most enjoyed sitting across from her when she was working on her penmanship. Pennythwaite’s lesson plans weren’t always this antiquated, but Hazel had been so fascinated by his use of quill pens, he’d catered to her interest, elevating the girl’s handwriting to an art form. Alfie doubted many fifteen-year-old girls routinely used dramatically flourished copperplate.

  The faint scratch of her nib paused, and Alfie glanced up.

  Hazel sat—her posture perfect—the tip of her pen resting on the lip of an ornate inkwell that had been a present from Uncle Wyn last Christmas.

  “Sonnet?” she ventured. “Do you have a last name?”

  Their cook bustled over with a fresh pot of tea. “Most everyone does.”

  Sonnet didn’t seem perturbed, though she’d sidestepped the question. Alfie hoped this wasn’t dangerous territory.

  Hazel persisted. “Are you an Outler like us?”

  “No, no. My people are from somewhere else.”

  This clearly intrigued Hazel, who enjoyed the books of maps that served as geography textbooks. “Are you foreign?”

  “Not at all!” protested Sonnet. “This has been my home for a long while. Ever since I was your brother’s age, more or less.”

  Hazel favored Alfie with a bright smile, but she wasn’t finished. “What is your last name?”

  “Oh! Well, now.” Sonnet considered for a moment. “It would probably be … Cook. Since I’m the cook.”

  Satisfied with this entirely reasonable appellation, Hazel added Sonnet’s full name to her practice sheet. But Alfie was certain that Sonnet had made it up on the spot. What’s more, he had to admit that he didn’t know the surnames of anyone else in their immediate circle, either.

  Not even Thrussel.

  Dish

  Somewhere along the way, Alfie had developed the vague idea that teenage girls were supposed to be a bother. Probably from school friends back in London. Or the telly. So he watched his sister for symptoms. It wasn’t that he was worried, or anything. He was simply … prepared. But Hazel passed her sixteenth and seventeenth birthdays without turning into a stranger.

  Maybe other people in other places were terrorized by adolescent females.

  Or maybe the men of Merritt House were being terrorized but didn’t mind it so much.

  “Where is the rosebud saucer, Sonnet?” Hazel called from inside the cupboard.

  The cook ducked her head. Truth be told, Alfie also saw her tuck her tail. “Why not try a different one this evening? Or one of the tiny bowls?”

  Hazel stopped clinking among the dishes to peer at the cook.

  Sonnet wrung her apron. “Oh, Hazel. I’m sorry, love. I know it was your special favorite.”

  “It broke?” Hazel’s whisper was tragic. “But they prefer the rosebuds.”

  “Who does?” Alfie interrupted. Sonnet looked in need of rescue.

  “The fairies, of course.” Hazel blinked, close to tears.

  Encouraged by Sonnet’s bedtime stories and nonsensical lore, Hazel had been taking care of fairies in the garden ever since she was small. It was a little girl game of make-believe. Harmless. Even cute. Alfie had always figured she’d outgrow it, but Hazel’s faith in her imaginary friends had only grown along with her.

  “There’s other sa
ucers,” Alfie offered awkwardly.

  “But we only had the one with rosebuds.” Hazel’s lip trembled. “They were yellow.”

  Sonnet, who looked close to tears herself, said, “Your uncle has gone up to Northrop Hall to see if his lordship has something similar.”

  Alfie was surprised Uncle Wyn would go that far over a bit of broken china. Then again, the man knew Hazel’s little routines as well as any of them.

  As the sun prepared to set, Hazel perched on a stool by the window facing the path to the manor house.

  Pulling Sonnet aside, Alfie whispered, “Did Uncle break it?”

  “Feels terrible, too.” She sighed. “He’ll try to make it right.”

  Alfie couldn’t bring himself to scold Hazel. To say that she put too much stock in childish games. That it was only a dish, for pity’s sake.

  Twenty minutes passed in pensive silence before Hazel bounced to her feet and ran out the door, skirt flapping, ribbons flying. She was back moments later, leading their hangdog uncle and Lord Alderney himself.

  Tristan Alderney was a sturdy man who overflowed with calm. If the men of Merritt House had become Hazel’s honorary uncles, then Lord Alderney was her great uncle. And twice as doting.

  “We did our best, child,” he said, sliding a box onto the table. “Lady Alderney sends these with her compliments. I even had the girls check the attic.”

  Hazel lifted each dainty dish out of the box. Soon the table was spread for a fairy-sized feast. Fine china. Cut glass. Subtle glazes. Shining facets. No two were alike, but none were a match for Hazel’s lost treasure.

  She hesitated over blue violets and yellow butterflies. “Will they mind, Sonnet?”

  The cook hummed. “If we fill the dish with honey mead instead of cream, this once, I’m sure they’ll take to the new pattern.”

  Alfie was surprised by that suggestion. He’d always rather assumed that the cream they put out was actually for Milk. Surely a cat would turn up their nose at an offering of liquor.

  “Take the lot,” suggested Lord Alderney. “Your wee friends may enjoy your little surprises.”

  “Even if the dish changes, you’re the same,” Uncle Wyn gruffly added. “It’s you they visit, Hazel.”

  While the conversation roved from the virtues of tinted glass to the secret meanings of certain flowers, Pennythwaite emerged from Uncle’s study and showed Alfie a catalog.

  It was pretty obvious what the man had in mind. Honestly, Alfie was impressed. “That’d do. It’s almost her birthday.”

  Pennythwaite inclined his head. “I will prepare the order form and payment. Would you be so good as to carry it into Yoxall in the morning?”

  “First thing,” promised Alfie.

  Hazel was about due for a new passion. Why not a porcelain painting kit?

  He’d tell Thrussel about it tomorrow. And see if his friend thought yellow rosebuds were a symptom of feminine terrorization.

  Child

  Alfie knew about high society and etiquette in the same way he knew about knights and chivalry. Fuzzy recollections of stories or shows. Allusions he ran across in books. He would have said such things were a far cry from farming, if not for Sonnet and Hazel.

  Upon her eighteenth birthday, Hazel announced that she was a lady, and that meant they must all become gentlemen.

  Sonnet agreed, and the two ladies put their heads together. Every few days, usually over mealtimes, they would make some new decree. The rules applied to all of them, and some of them were pure nonsense. Alfie was pretty sure they’d been cobbled together from Sonnet’s stories, Uncle Wyn’s books, and Hazel’s own imagination.

  Honestly, it was harmless. He didn’t much mind the new rules.

  Alfie had to shave before dinner, and Hazel now pinned up her hair.

  Handkerchiefs were to be carried and dropped and offered.

  Moving forward, they must always refer to the ox cart as their carriage.

  Not all of it was about gentlemanly behavior, though. Hazel had rules about the pretty rocks she arranged on the windowsills, which were supposedly charms against the mischief of fairies. And she set chimes in the plum trees around Cozy Cottage, which had something to do with Beck’s chickens. The phases of the moon were suddenly important, and there were rules for foggy mornings, for rainbows, for shooting stars.

  She rearranged furniture so they’d have a breakfast room.

  She begged Uncle Wyn to buy a piano forte.

  She began hinting to Lord Alderney about hosting a ball.

  Most difficult was the whole thing about posture. Apparently, his was all wrong. There were different ways to stand, depending on your attitude. Or something. Alfie did try, but he botched the details or got them backward. Meanwhile, the rest of them made it look easy. Like the forms were natural.

  “You’ll catch on,” promised Triggs.

  “Watch and learn,” Beck said with a wink.

  The homebrewed etiquette was nothing more than an elaborate game, but Hazel took so much pleasure in it, Alfie did his best to please her. They all did.

  But he noticed something.

  The more Hazel insisted they treat her like a lady, the more childish she seemed.

  Which was probably why everyone was so patient. Pennythwaite, Triggs, Beck, and even Uncle Wyn were unfailingly gentle with his sister because to them, she was only a child.

  Tray

  Hazel tiptoed down the hall, quiet as a mouse in her continuing efforts to sneak up on the pitterhinds that were nesting in the shrubbery right up under the east window. They were too sweet for words, and she liked to wake early enough to watch them returning to roost after a long night chasing insects.

  Slipping the catch, she swung the circular pane out on silent hinges. Beck kept them well-oiled for this very reason. It was a pretty window, with golden glass along the edges and bevels to capture rainbows. When she was little, Sonnet had needed to lift her to see the pitterhind nest. Now, Hazel could lean right out for her first look at the day.

  The sun wasn’t far from rising, and fog hung in wisps over the low places. She could see Triggs ambling along the lane, returning from his morning stroll to the far pasture with his ladies.

  He was empty-handed this morning, but that was all right. This being a Thursday, it was Uncle Wyn’s turn to bring flowers.

  That was one of their little traditions. Flowers on the tray that appeared at her bedside table every morning, courtesy of Sonnet.

  The whistling flutter of wings drew Hazel’s attention to the shrub, where two pitterhinds swung low for a landing. Even in the pre-dawn dim, she could see enough to tell the male and female apart as they scampered on clever paws toward their nest.

  Pea green fur.

  Tufted tails.

  Tiny antlers.

  Adorable.

  She’d always wanted to catch and tame one. If only Pennythwaite didn’t keep insisting he was allergic.

  With a sigh and a smile, she latched the window and went to wash up.

  By the time she returned to her room, Sonnet had been and gone.

  The morning tray held its usual array of day-starters. A book recommendation from Uncle and a crossword puzzle from Alfie, who clipped them from the newspapers Thrussel collected. The tea she drank for her constitution. A teensy dish of sun cream, which kept her nose from burning and her cheeks from freckling. It smelled faintly of honeysuckle and was the only scent she was permitted to wear. Sonnet was choosy about such things. Then there was a list from Pennythwaite, who liked for her to rewrite them handsomely.

  On any other morning, she would have arranged herself at her little writing desk to sip tea and open her inkwell.

  But … the flowers!

  They were completely, awfully, dreadfully wrong.

  Today was most certainly the third Thursday, which meant Uncle Wyn should have sent up the little blue bud vase with clusters of baby’s breath. This was only proper, because the tiny white flowers meant that a pale moon was in the morning
sky. But on her tray—jaunty and jarring as you please—was a speckled tin mug filled with purple asters.

  And it was all wrong!

  Oh, there would be words.

  Uncle should know better!

  Throwing a robe over her nightgown, Hazel seized the offending mug, holding it at arm’s length as she marched it to the kitchen. But her righteous indignation faltered at the sight of someone new seated at the kitchen table.

  His chair scraped, and he stood.

  She could admit that was gentlemanly. But he didn’t belong in the kitchen. Not at this hour. And she in her night clothes!

  Her grip slipped, but Sonnet was there to catch the cup and murmur, “Good morning, love. I see you found Florent’s flowers. Wasn’t that kind of him?”

  “But it’s Thursday,” she countered, unable to tear her eyes from the stranger.

  He was tanned, and he wore the same sort of clothes favored by Triggs and Beck. A worker, then? He was a youngish man, not much taller than she. Which was short. Indeed, he didn’t even come up to Sonnet’s shoulder when she hurried to place the mug of asters on the breakfast table. Right next to the blue bud vase of baby’s breath.

  “Found a wild thicket on the walk over,” Sonnet went on in placating tones. “There aren’t many flowers left this late in the season. They’re a rare treat.”

  Hazel simply repeated, “But it’s Thursday.”

  “So it is,” Sonnet conceded. “I thought they’d be a celebratory touch. Since he’s come all this way.”

  “What for?”

  “Florent is the new farmhand,” she happily announced. “He’s moving into Cozy Cottage.”

  “But that’s where Triggs and Beck live.”

  “They don’t mind sharing.” Sonnet turned to the newcomer and repeated, “This is Florent.”

  Hazel warily crossed to the table, which he still stood behind. At closer range, she could tell that his eyes were large and light, and his hair seemed to have gone prematurely gray. He was strange, and he wasn’t supposed to be a part of Thursdays.