“I’m sorry about the twins,” Callam said. “They can be a bit much at times.”
“I wasn’t very nice when I was their age,” I told him. It was true. I’d been worse. “And your parents are nice too.”
“Thanks,” Callam said. “What are your parents like?”
I hesitated. “Father is … a very ambitious man,” I said, after a moment. “He wants to rule Shallot. Unfortunately, so many others have the same ambition.”
Callam stopped and stared at me. “The whole city?”
“He believes it’s ours by right,” I said, carefully not mentioning that there was a time I’d believed that too. “We’re the oldest family in Shallot. It comes with certain responsibilities.”
“And big heads,” Callam teased.
“Yeah,” I said. I ran my hand through my hair. The braids were starting to come undone again. “We’re very self-important.”
I felt a flicker of envy. My parents had planned my life out for me almost as soon as I’d been born. I would grow up, go to school, build a patronage network of my own, marry well and have children before starting a career … all for the greater good of the family. Callam didn’t have to worry about marrying well, or even marrying at all. Akin had been expected to take over as Patriarch, once Father died, although I suspected the Family Council would be reluctant to clear him after what I’d done. They might look at a cousin - perhaps even a second cousin - instead of my brother.
And Akin would be happy, I thought, as we reached the arch and recovered our wellies. I wonder if Cat will be pleased.
I looked at Callam. “Would you want it? I mean … would you want to live in Shallot?”
Callam stepped into the water and started to wade up towards the arch. “I don’t know,” he said, without looking back. “You don’t make it sound very attractive.”
“It’s the finest city in the world,” I said, stung.
“But you’re also telling me that people like you have to work to please your families,” he pointed out. “And that you’re in constant competition with every other family …”
I followed him, unsure what to say. The water lapped against my trousers, spilling down into my wellies; I shivered and forced myself to keep going as we stepped through the wards. The gap in the defences was smaller on this side, but still there. Callam waded to the riverbank and climbed out, just as the rain started to come down in earnest, drenching me to the bone. I cursed under my breath. It was almost dinnertime and I was going to be soaked! I hoped Morag didn’t see me as I entered the hall. I’d have to sneak up to my room and undress before she saw me.
“I wouldn’t want it,” Callam said, reflectively. “I’d sooner be happy.”
“I understand,” I said, not entirely truthfully. I’d wanted power, whatever the price. If my family had given me a path to power, I would never have listened to Stregheria Aguirre. And yet, my lust for power had betrayed me. “I’ll see you on Saturday?”
“Without a doubt,” Callam said.
I winked at him, then hurried back along the road to the hall. The rain grew worse, sending trickles of water running down my back and into my wellies. My feet splashed into potholes I couldn’t see, leaving me more drenched than ever before. I promised myself a hot bath when I got home, followed by some hot chocolate. I didn’t need a real dinner. Catha had fed me more than enough.
The side door crashed open as I approached. Morag stood there, her hands on her hips and murder in her eyes. I flinched, suddenly convinced that the worst was about to happen. She knew I’d left the grounds …
“Where have you been?”
Chapter Seventeen
I found myself stammering, unsure what to say or do. Panic ran through my thoughts. She knew. She knew I’d left the grounds. She knew …
“Get in here,” Morag snapped. She reached out, caught my arm and yanked me through the door, slamming it behind me. “You’re wet!”
I stared at her as she rounded on me. Should I be defiant or beg for mercy or … I swallowed, hard. I was in real trouble and … how had she known I’d left the grounds? I’d checked for tracking spells. Had I missed one? Or …
“The first time we actually need you at dinner and you decide to go playing in the rain,” Morag thundered. “What were you thinking?”
“I …”
“Be silent,” Morag snapped. “Go upstairs, get washed, get into a proper dress and then walk to the green dining room. And remember your manners!”
I blinked. I was slowly starting to realise that, whatever else she was mad about, she hadn’t realised that I’d left the grounds. There hadn’t been a tracking spell after all. Morag was merely mad I hadn’t been there for dinner, although … she’d never told me I needed to be there for dinner. I opened my mouth to point that out, caught sight of the murderous glint in her eye and fled up the stairs instead, water dripping from my clothes. Morag snapped something after me - I didn’t hear it - as I reached the first floor. I hoped I wasn’t going to be too late for dinner. That was an unforgivable faux pas.
The thought made me giggle helplessly as I hurried into my room. I was in exile for high treason and extremely lucky I hadn’t had my head chopped off. High treason and being late for dinner. I’d never be welcome anywhere with a record like that. I closed the door behind me, slammed a locking charm into place and hastily tore off my damp clothes. I wanted a proper bath, complete with hot water and soap, but I didn’t have time. Instead, I heated water in the tub and splashed myself thoroughly.
They need me at dinner, I thought, as I muttered a drying cantrip. Why do they need me at dinner?
It was odd, to say the least. I’d fallen into the habit of joining Morag and Uncle Ira for dinner, but neither of them had bothered to complain when I’d stayed away. Mother would have made sharp remarks; Morag had merely reminded me to clear up the mess after I fixed dinner for myself. I puzzled over it as I searched through the wardrobe until I found a green dress, one of the last I’d bought for myself before going to Jude’s. It was the nicest thing I had to wear.
Uncle Ira wouldn’t care what I wore, I thought, as I pulled the dress over my head and snapped it into place. It was modelled on one of Mother’s dresses, although it was obviously a great deal smaller. And if he wanted me there, he’d have had Morag tell me in the morning …
I stopped, midway through plaiting my hair, as it struck me. We had guests! Visitors! And that meant … my father? My birthday was only a few weeks away. Father might have been able to get permission to visit or, more likely, found an excuse to visit Caithness and drop by Kirkhaven Hall on the way home. My heart started to beat as I picked up the golden necklace, glinting with rubies, and placed it around my neck. If it was Father, I had to see him. I had so much to ask him …
The hall felt very quiet as I made my way down the stairs and into the green dining room. It was a large chamber, barely used; Morag had told me that it had been years since Kirkhaven Hall had hosted any dinner parties. Now, it was brightly lit, with a giant wooden table in the exact centre. Five people - six, counting Uncle Ira - were seated around it. My heart sank as my eyes flew from face to face. Four men, one woman … all strangers. My father hadn’t come after all.
Uncle Ira rose, motioning for me to enter. “Lady Isabella Rubén, Daughter of Carioca and Jeannine,” he said, formally. “Another young person who has been sent into exile.”
My cheeks heated. I curtseyed hastily in the hopes of hiding it. They looked at me for a long moment, then turned back to the table as Uncle Ira pointed me to a chair at the far end. It stung, even though I knew I wouldn’t be expected to do more than sit still and look pretty. I was too young to take part in adult conversations. Normally, there would be someone my age - or close enough - to keep me entertained. Here … I looked at the guests. The woman, who seemed to be the youngest, looked to be around ten years older than Morag.
Pity I can’t invite Callam, I thought, as I remembered my manners and lowered my eyes. He might
have enjoyed it.
I clung to that thought for a moment, then dismissed it. Callam wouldn’t enjoy it. Formal dinners were carried out with all the stiff formality of a dance. The slightest mistake, the slightest break in the well-trodden routine, would be remembered for years. Callam would hate having to follow rules he didn’t understand, knowing all too well that it was just a matter of time before he crossed a line he didn’t know existed. I didn’t like it either and I’d been trained in formal etiquette from the moment I could sit upright.
Morag entered, carrying a large tureen of soup. I wondered if I should get up and help her, even though I was wearing an expensive dress. She made no sign as her eyes met mine, just for a second. Instead, she ladled out the soup as she walked around the table. I remembered helping her to make it, a few days ago. She could have told me that we would be having guests. I was lucky I’d come back in time for dinner.
I took a sip, then amused myself by studying the guests. None of them were family, unless they’d dyed their hair. Two of the men were so pale that they or their ancestors probably came from the icy kingdoms to the north, their hair so red that I thought they’d have fitted into Kirkhaven; the other two were more common, although there were hints that they’d had ancestors from Ardrossan. The woman was definitely from Shallot, I thought. Her accent was strikingly pure. She glanced at me a couple of times, as we finished our soup, but said nothing. Another exile? Or someone who’d decided to establish herself elsewhere? The family had quite a few of those.
The soup was tasty, but I wasn’t very hungry. I sipped, trying to listen to the conversation as it rolled around the table. Some of it was incomprehensible, to the point where they might as well have been speaking in tongues; some of it was so boring that I did my best to ignore it, wishing - once again - for a companion of my own. It was a galling thought. I’d wanted to be considered an adult ever since I’d started at Jude’s. Now, I thought I understood just how far I had to go.
It could be worse, I told myself. I could have been put in charge of a much younger kid.
I shuddered at the thought. I’d been a much younger kid, once upon a time. Defying the poor girl set to watch us had seemed hilarious. Now, as an older girl myself, it was much less funny. The certain knowledge that Mother - or Morag - would blame me for anything the little brat did, just as Sandy had been blamed for our misbehaviour in the dorms, would put a damper on my enjoyment. I finished my soup, feeling a little better about the day. At least I wasn’t expected to serve as a babysitter.
Morag collected the bowls without comment and slipped through the door. I wanted to go with her, even though I knew better than to do as much as stand without Uncle Ira’s permission. Mother had always said that a person who left the table could not return - I’d missed out on pudding a couple of times because of it - and that had been when the family had been dining alone, without witnesses. Embarrassing Uncle Ira in front of his guests would not please him. The only thing I could do was wait to be dismissed.
“Lady Isabella,” one of the guests said. “Was the Crown Prince really guilty?”
I blinked in surprise. It wasn’t usual for the adult guests to talk to the children, not if there wasn’t a family relationship. Even family rarely talked across the age line during formal dinners. My older sister - if I’d had an older sister - would spend the dinner doing her best to pretend that I didn’t exist. I’d often thought it was a shame I couldn’t do that with Akin. We hadn’t got on too badly, before I’d been sent into exile, but we’d had little in common beyond the family name.
Uncle Ira nodded, when I looked at him. I guessed that he wasn’t that concerned about formality - or, more likely, that he was more desperate for company than he’d let on. Morag was clearly not someone he could talk to on an equal basis and I was even less so. I felt a flicker of sympathy, wondering - again - just how long Uncle Ira had been in exile. He was certainly old enough to change his name, cross the border and vanish. And he was skilled enough to make a decent living wherever he might go.
“He was,” I said. I had no idea quite how much of the story they’d heard, but I saw no reason to spare the Crown Prince’s memory. “He was planning to overthrow his father and take the crown.”
The woman cleared her throat. “I heard he was a dupe,” she said. “Lady Stregheria had conned him into supporting her.”
“He wasn’t conned,” I said, tersely. “The Crown Prince knew what he was doing.”
I looked down at the table as the guests started to talk amongst themselves again, trying to process what I’d been told. The Crown Prince had been conned … was that the official line? King Rufus wouldn’t want to admit that his firstborn son had been plotting against him, would he? And, with the Crown Prince dead, there was nothing to stop the king blaming everything on Stregheria Aguirre - and me. No one would question the story, particularly when everyone wanted to believe it. The prospect of a bloody coup, even without foreign involvement, was enough to make everyone shudder. It was supposed to be unthinkable. Better to let Stregheria Aguirre cop the blame than call the integrity of the monarchy into question.
And I’m up here - in exile - while his reputation is being rehabilitated, I thought, bitterly. I knew I was lucky to be alive, and this far from Shallot I probably didn’t have to worry about the king sending assassins to tie up a loose end, but still … the Crown Prince had been involved in the conspiracy from the very start. The king is probably grateful he doesn’t have to behead his son.
“The new Crown Prince isn’t having a good time of it,” one of the pale-skinned men said, wryly. “His mother has been sent back home, while he and his siblings are under a cloud of suspicion. Parliament has been asking all sorts of questions about removing them from the line of succession.”
“They can’t be removed, unless they’re found guilty,” Uncle Ira pointed out. “And they’re even younger than Isabella.”
My cheeks heated, again, as they looked at me. I was twelve, the late Crown Prince’s children were … what? The oldest boy was five, I thought. I’d attended the official birthing ceremony - everyone who was anyone had attended the ceremony - but I’d been too young to really appreciate it. I felt a stab of sympathy for the kid. Growing up under a cloud of suspicion for something that had happened before he was old enough to cast a single spell … I felt sick. Maybe I was the lucky one after all. I didn’t have to endure years of people thinking I was untrustworthy.
“You were there,” the woman said. “What happened?”
I gritted my teeth and started to tell the story as best as I could. They listened, without interrupting to ask questions … I was almost grateful. Uncle Ira listened too, his face an impassive mask. He should, technically, have told them to leave me in peace, but he didn’t seem to care. I wondered if he was quietly using me to distract attention from him or … or what? I didn’t even know who the guests were.
Morag returned just as I finished, pushing a trolley in front of her. I stared, wondering where she’d managed to get a turkey. Uncle Ira was clearly trying to impress his guests, I thought, as Morag placed the turkey in front of him and started to pass out the bowls of potatoes, vegetables and various different sauces. I kicked myself, mentally, for not having been around to help. No wonder she’d been annoyed. And yet, I would have stayed if she’d thought to ask.
“We may be a long way from home,” Uncle Ira said as he carved the meat, “but we do not need to be uncivilised.”
I took the plate he offered me, loaded it with potatoes and some vegetables - one advantage of being in exile was that no one tried to … encourage … me to eat sprouts or broccoli - and splashed gravy over the pile. It smelt so good that I had to force myself to wait for everyone else to be served, then for Uncle Ira to mutter a prayer to our ancestors before starting to eat. It tasted perfect, right down to the gravy and peas. Morag was clearly a very good cook.
There was no conversation during the main course, much to my relief. My feelings were a tan
gled mess. The Crown Prince was being rehabilitated, now that he was dead … I shook my head, wondering what that meant for Akin. My brother had killed the Crown Prince. The king might want his head, but the family would resist … of course they’d resist. Akin hadn’t been a traitor. He’d killed a traitor. And yet, the king would need to demand some punishment for Akin if he wanted to rehabilitate his son’s memory. I wondered, sourly, what was happening back home. I might be safer a long way from Shallot.
The dinner came to an end. Uncle Ira spoke briefly to Morag, then led his guests into the smoking room. I hesitated, unsure if I should follow him or assist Morag in cleaning the table and washing the plates. He’d made a point of having me at dinner, when he could easily have left me in my room, but … I was a child. I wasn’t supposed to join the adults unless specifically invited. Uncle Ira closed the door behind him before I could make up my mind.
“Go to your room and sleep,” Morag ordered, quietly. “And don’t leave until tomorrow morning.”
I blinked. “You don’t want help?”
“Do as you’re told,” Morag said, crossly. “Go.”
I dropped a curtsey - she was clearly in a bad mood about something - and then hurried up the stairs to my room. Morag might not have control over the wards, but she could probably use them to keep track of me while I was in the hall. I shut the door behind me, then changed into my nightgown. The charms woven into the dress seemed to have kept it clean, to my relief, but I brushed it down anyway as I placed it back into the wardrobe. I didn’t feel tired, although it had been a long day, so I picked up one of the books and climbed into bed. I thought I could read for a while until I felt like sleeping.
It isn’t as if anyone bothers to turn out the lights here, I thought, as I snuggled up to the blanket. There were some advantages to being in exile, after all. I can read all night and no one would care …
A dull thump echoed through the hall. I froze, my ears pricking. What was that? I heard something - a muffled sound, as if someone was pacing around the room overhead - followed by another thump. The wards seemed to grow stronger for a moment - I braced myself, half-expecting them to turn on me - and then faded away again into the background. I forced myself to climb out of bed and listen at the door, but I heard nothing. The sound, whatever it was, was gone.
The Family Shame Page 16