Staff & Crown

by W. R. Gingell

  “Jess says there’s not much, just a few local places of interest and a manor that’s are only used in the hunting season.”

  “Is it hunting season?”

  “I suppose it depends on what you’re hunting,” Dannick said. “There’s always pheasants now, but if it’s gnau you’re after, it’s the wrong time of year. Gnau hunting season is when the manors will all be full as they can hold.”

  “So the bicycle girls could be taking the messages to the Red Hen, to that manor, or to somewhere else out in the country.”

  “Yes,” Dannick said. “Sorry, your highness. I’m hoping to have more information soon.”

  “That’s enough to be going on with, anyway,” Annabel said. She was quite well pleased—the more so because in this at least, she fancied she had the information before Melchior had it. Now if only she could manage to convince him to tell her what he was keeping from her, she would be very well satisfied.

  It was this determination that made her seek out Isabella again as soon as class broke up. The girls were still milling around in the classroom, laughing and talking without being too concerned about going on to their next lesson in any prompt manner, but it wasn’t until Annabel looked around and saw the absence of any teacher, that she understood why.

  Of Isabella, she asked quietly, “What did you do to the teacher?”

  “Nothing at all!” Isabella said, with wide eyes. “I do assure you, Nan! Only I fancy she won’t be coming out of her room at any stage soon, because I did hear there was a snake in her room. Imagine, Nan! The poor creature must be confused—it keeps circling the bed as if it can’t see which way to go!”

  “I suppose the teacher’s on the bed,” Annabel said, trying not to grin too much. “Wait, wasn’t this a Place Setting class?”

  “I wonder why I gave you a schedule, Nan; really I do.”

  “But isn’t it the Meal Matron who takes this one?”

  “Astonishing, isn’t it?” Isabella said. “The Meal Matron is such a strong, fearless woman. Who would have imagined that she would crumble so completely in the face of a harmless little grass snake?”

  “You, probably,” said Annabel, without mincing words. “Belle, how in the world can you handle snakes when you’re afraid of horses!”

  “Snakes,” said Isabella firmly, “are lovely, soft, sensitive creatures who are greatly misunderstood. Horses—now horses, Nan, are a wicked combination of muscle and sheer, errant determination not to do what is expected of them.”

  “All right,” Annabel said, still grinning. “But I’d prefer to deal with horses rather than snakes.”

  “So, it appears, would the Meal Matron. Perhaps our dinner will be late.”

  “Perhaps,” agreed Annabel, “but perhaps they’ll just get Melchior to do it again. And speaking of Melchior—”

  “Naturally! I should think you’re just about ready, Nan. Shall we try tonight? I take it that Dannick had some useful information for you?”

  “It’s nearly useful. I don’t think Melchior knows about it, but I think he might know some other things that will help me understand that thing a little more.”

  “In that case, we’d best repair to our suite before dinner,” Isabella said. “There’s a new ensemble I’m determined to have you wear to the dining hall. It will have the dual effect of taking the shine out of Lady Selma considerably, and utterly astonishing Melchior, if I have anything to say about it.”

  “All right,” Annabel said. “But if Melchior kicks me out straight away, it’s your fault, ensemble or no ensemble. I’ll put all the blame on you without a second thought.”

  “Naturally!” said Isabella again. “Oh, won’t we startle Melchior today! I wish I could be there to see it, Nan; really I do!”

  Melchior was certainly very startled when he saw her before dinner that night, though Annabel wasn’t sure if that was because of Isabella’s ensemble, or because he caught her winking solemnly at Dannick as he passed in the hallway.

  “Miss Ammett,” he said, with a particularly sarcastic curl to his lips, that did nothing to help Dannick’s already red face, “Trenthams encourages a good relationship between staff and students, but it does insist on some distance.”

  “Does it really?” asked Isabella, as Dannick hastily removed himself from the scene. Her voice was just the right mix of curiosity and innocence. “Are you sure, sir? Really sure? I can’t say I’ve observed it, but I suppose a master would know more than a mere student, after all.”

  “What does Trenthams suggest when a student has something in her eye?” Annabel demanded, going on the attack immediately after Isabella. Melchior’s eyes narrowed, and there was a pleasing moment where she felt an entirely mischievous satisfaction.

  He looked swiftly up and down the otherwise empty hallway, and Annabel had only a moment to feel in somewhat vague alarm that she’d made a mistake, before he cupped her face between his hands, spreading his fingers carefully around that eye, and blew gently in it.

  “This, Nan,” he said. “This is what Trenthams suggests for a student who has something caught in her eye.”

  “Well, really!” said Isabella. “It appears that Trenthams also makes a difference between staff and masters.”

  “Belle is hurt because you’re behaving as if she’s not here,” Annabel informed Melchior.

  “Naturally! It’s a most unfamiliar and uncomfortable sensation.”

  “I find, Firebrand, that I don’t particularly care.”

  Annabel, still captured by the face, blinked up at him. “You should probably let go of me before any more of the girls come along.”

  “Should I?” Melchior sounded unconvinced, but he did release her.

  “You’re late to dinner, too, actually,” Annabel said. “If you’re the monitor tonight, that is.”

  Melchior said something impolite below his breath and strode away toward the dining hall doors. Watching him, Isabella said, “I really do applaud my own timing, Nan! Tonight will certainly be the best time for you to get information out of Melchior.”

  “If you really think so,” Annabel said, unconvincedly. “But if he kicks me out straight away—”

  “Yes, yes; you’ll blame me utterly. I will take that responsibility. Now, Nan; while you’re busy with Melchior tonight—no, let’s not go in right away. The girls will seize on anything to cause gossip at the moment, and if we go right in after Melchior with your face as pink as it is—”

  “Is my face pink?” Annabel asked, in astonishment.

  Isabella looked at her narrowly. “Did you really not know, Nan? Dear me! You do constantly astonish me! No, never mind that—while you’re busy with Melchior tonight, I’ll see if I can’t arrange for someone to intercept the note between Lady Selma and the bicycle girls next time they try. We might find something interesting there.”

  “All right,” agreed Annabel. “And we’ll meet again after in the suite to discuss our strategy. Don’t fall asleep!”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it!” Isabella said happily.

  Later, with her hair dressed high again in a way that made her feel very elegant and poised, Annabel stole quietly down the hallway. She had purposely chosen the lull between dinner time and the rush back to suites that happened just before lights out, and the halls were as empty as she had hoped. There wasn’t a girl to be seen when she let herself into Melchior’s room, shutting the door after herself with a pleasing sensation of accomplishment.

  “Nan!” said Melchior in surprise as she entered, jerking upright. He had evidently not been expecting her; his black and silver waistcoat was unbuttoned and loose, and his shiny black shoes were nowhere in evidence. Much to Annabel’s delight, his hair was also slightly ruffled—he looked, in fact, very much like the Blackfoot whose head she had used to pat.

  “There’s no need to get up,” she said, since he seemed to be about to do so. She felt that it would have ruined the friendly feeling to the picture—or perhaps he looked defenceless for a change. Annab
el was very well aware that she would need whatever advantage she could get in her campaign this evening. “It’s not as if I haven’t seen you with your waistcoat unbuttoned or your shoes off before.”

  Melchior smiled faintly and sat back again. He gazed at her with his head leaning against the back of the sofa, and it struck Annabel that he had relaxed utterly, as if he had somehow been waiting to see her and now that he was looking at her, could finally rest. She crossed the room, aware of the gaze that followed her but not uncomfortable under it, and fetched two teacups out. There was a faint clink as the fireless hob started the kettle on its boiling cycle, though Melchior hadn’t moved again.

  Annabel said, “Thanks,” in a friendly sort of way.

  She made two cups of tea as Melchior turned his eyes back to his book, but Annabel had a feeling that he wasn’t reading the book so much as gazing at its pages. That was all right, she thought hopefully. She didn’t need him to be completely ignoring her—so long as his eyes were engaged for long enough, that was all she needed. It would have been rather off-putting, in fact, if he had been ignoring her completely.

  Annabel carried both cups by their saucers and brought them around the back of the couch. There was a small table there, she remembered. Enough space for a teacup and saucer, and a small plate of something—or, in this case, two teacups with their saucers. She put them both down together; and, mindful of Isabella’s instructions during her two official lessons on Informational Flirting, began with the familiar. The familiar, in this case, meant leaning on the back of Melchior’s sofa and wrapping her arms around his neck to prop her chin on the top of his head.

  There was a brief moment where Melchior didn’t seem to notice—or perhaps where he relaxed again by the most infinitesimal amount—before he straightened in surprise, dislodging Annabel’s chin but not her arms.

  “Nan, what did I tell you about hanging over the back of gentlemen’s chairs? Let go of me at once.”

  “I don’t want to,” said Annabel. “And if you keep wriggling like that, things will get undignified. Your hair will probably get messier, too.” It was the thing human Melchior most had in common with cat Melchior—that dislike for having his hair rumpled the wrong way.

  “I see,” Melchior said. She couldn’t see his face, but she heard the undercurrent of amusement in his voice. “May I ask why you’ve come to my rooms merely to hang around my neck?”

  “I missed you,” Annabel said. “And also I was feeling lonely but I didn’t think Dannick or Raoul would appreciate me hanging on their necks, so—”

  “Absolutely not!” said Melchior, jerking forward.

  Annabel clung to his neck even more firmly. “Anyway, you said I could come and sit with you sometimes if I wanted to see you.”

  “I did,” agreed Melchior. He sank against the sofa back again. His book was still open, but it had dropped to the sofa beside him. “I had no idea that you would miss the sight of me so soon!”

  “Don’t be irritating tonight,” Annabel said into the slightly curling hairs at Melchior’s temple. There were one or two silver ones there, despite the fact that Melchior was only, as far as anyone knew, twenty five or six years of age. “I’m comfortable and I don’t feel like losing my temper.”

  “Are you comfortable?” enquired Melchior, and Annabel saw the curve of his cheek as he smiled.

  “Very!” she averred. “What are you reading, anyway?”

  “Matheson’s Treatise on Preferred Methods of Spell Protection.”

  “Oh,” said Annabel. “Is it interesting?”

  “Not in the slightest,” Melchior said. “If we’re to judge it on the merits of its teaching alone. Fortunately, it isn’t necessary for me to pay attention to the teaching of the book—most of the methods are completely incorrect, and the others are methods by which I am unable to work.”

  Annabel threw a curious look down at the book on the seat of the sofa. “Then it seems like a waste of time to read the treatise, but I suppose you know what you’re doing.”

  “Thank you so much, Nan.

  “Someone has scribbled in the margins.”

  “I’ll have you know, Nan, that it is not scribbling—these are my notes from when I was a child, studying this book.”

  “Why were you studying this book? I would have thought it wasn’t much use to you if half of the methods don’t work and the other half don’t work for your magic.”

  “Perhaps not,” Melchior said, and she could see that he was smiling faintly by the curve of his cheek. “But someone told me I might find it useful, and so I did.”

  “Why would someone—is that something to do with Black Velvet?”

  “Not directly,” said Melchior, surprising her by answering. “Before Black Velvet there was Rorkin and a couple of other, er, young meddlers. They like to leave me messages in odd places.”

  “Messages about what?” Annabel asked, looking at the scribbled-over book more carefully.

  “The Sleeping Princess, the Castle—Mordion. Someone hid messages in the text.”

  Annabel, in some astonishment, said, “That’s what Belle said!”

  “Oh, the Firebrand knows about that?” Melchior’s voice sounded uneasy. “Sometimes I get the distinct feeling that the Firebrand knows more than Black Velvet.”

  “Probably,” agreed Annabel. “But Poly has already been rescued, and Mordion is gone, and the Castle will be coming back soon. Why still study the book? Who else do you have to learn about?”

  Melchior turned his head just enough to turn a mocking look on her. “That, Nan, is a secret.”

  “I’ll ask you about that later, then,” Annabel said. There were other things to ask first, after all. “Did you manage to get anything more out of the Old Parrasians that we captured, Melchior? You said they didn’t have much to say, but I suppose you kept trying?”

  “Naturally,” said Melchior. He was looking down at the lace of her sleeve where it draped over his arm, and Annabel thought he was smiling. “Well, Nan; Raoul tells me that those men have been somewhat more cooperative given the possible charges of treason that could be levelled against them. They admitted that they were part of the attempt to kidnap you earlier, and gave up a meeting place for our information.”

  “Did they say anything about the Pretender?” asked Annabel. “And did you find out anything at their meeting place?”

  She knew she’d been too eager as soon as she asked the second question, and clutched more tightly around Melchior’s neck in expectation of another struggle. Instead, Melchior only turned a little until he could see her more clearly.

  “I was convinced, Nan,” he said, smiling up at her, “that you were here merely because you missed me. I begin to feel that it’s not the case.”

  “No,” said Annabel, going by another of Isabella’s maxims—Attack with Truth! “I’m here to get information out of you. You were nice and told me a little about the Old Parrasian thugs, so now I’m going to pat you on the head.”

  “Ah, I see,” Melchior said. The light of laughter was back in his eyes. “This is to be an exchange, then? For each item of information I give you, I’m to be patted on the head?”

  “Not exactly,” said Annabel, happily scruffing his hair. “But I think you’re inclined to be lovely tonight, and it’s nice to pat you on the head again.”

  “I see. You still have more questions.”

  “And it’s no good trying to wriggle away,” Annabel warned him again.

  “I’ve no intention of wriggling away,” Melchior told her. “I feel that I should be encouraging you in your attempted informational gathering.”

  Immediately suspicious, Annabel said, “Oh, do you?”

  “Certainly, Nan. Come, what else do you have to ask about? Perhaps I’ll tell you.”

  Since that made her even more suspicious, Annabel thought a little before she answered. Then she said, “The day that Lady Selma arrived.”

  “I remember. What of it?”

  “You w
ere sneaking around that day,” Annabel said. “I remember because you threatened to kiss me.”

  “Threatened?” There was the suggestion of Blackfoot’s purr to Melchior’s voice.

  “Yes,” Annabel said, digging her chin into his shoulder. “I think you knew what was about to happen—or maybe you just knew something was going to happen.”

  “I knew the Aunts were up to something,” Melchior agreed. “There was nothing concrete, of course, but it was rather obvious.”

  “There must have been something suspicious about the Tea Crafting Class, too,” Annabel added. “You made sure that Isabella and I were in your class so we couldn’t be in that one, didn’t you?”

  “Dear me, Nan!” said Melchior, turning his head so that his nose almost touched hers. “You have been paying attention. Very well, then; it was obvious that the classes were carefully arranged this term, and it was all arranged around that particular class. I fancied things might be more dangerous for you both if you attended. Now I know that it was for Lady Selma’s benefit—to give her a chance to meet friends and influence people, as it were, but at the time it seemed reasonable to suppose that it was merely to allow for an attack.”

  Annabel, who might have pulled back with pink cheeks if she hadn’t been in Melchior’s room for the express purpose of flirting, said, “Blackfoot’s nose was softer, but I like yours better,” and tapped that nose gently with one finger.

  Much to her astonishment, this simple sentiment seemed to deprive Melchior of both words and breath. He gazed at her in silence, his lips barely parted and his eyes at the same time curious and unsure, and didn’t seem inclined to move.

  “That’s how, anyway,” she said to him. “The Tea Crafting Class, that is. That’s how I knew you knew a lot more about Lady Selma than you were saying.”

  “I knew that the Awesome Aunts were bringing an important guest in,” said Melchior slowly, thoughtfully, “and that there was the possibility of a pretender. That’s the sum of my knowledge, Nan.”

  “I think,” said Annabel, remembering a previous conversation with Melchior, “that you’ve been pretending to know a lot more than you do know.”