“What other things?” I ask, sitting up again.
“I don’t remember,” Keva says, stifling a yawn. “Why don’t you ask him yourself tomorrow? You are his squire now, after all.”
I lay back down as the bloated, black-veined bodies of Agnès and Rei flash before me, just like my father must have looked almost twenty years ago….
Somehow, Arthur knows more about all of this than he’s admitted. No surprise there. The question now is: How am I going to make him talk?
◆◆◆
I jerk awake as a pillow slams into my face.
“Wake up, you sloth. It’s time for mass.”
I crack an eye open to check the windup clock set on the windowsill. “But it’s only three in the morning,” I say.
“And we’ve got a lot of extra cramming to do,” Keva retorts. “We’re at war, remember?”
I dutifully roll out of bed and grunt as my feet hit the floor, blinking in the incandescent light provided by the salamander up on the ceiling. I look back at my bed wistfully.
After Keva’s revelation last night my mind wouldn’t shut up. It isn’t until it conjured an image of Arthur, tied down to train tracks and screaming like a damsel in distress, that I finally conked out, sometime after the Matins[42] bells.
Without a word, I follow Keva down the flights of stairs, and out the Northern Door. The courtyard’s gravel crunches like a gazillion chips under the feet of dozens of knights as we rush to church. But when we finally step inside, I suck in my breath.
“It’s gotten a little more crowded since you left, hasn’t it?” Keva says. “It’s amazing how fear makes people more pious. That and the Board’s finally bothered to send some extra knights over to help out.”
She motions me forward and I follow her down the nave, catching snatches of conversation as we pass the benches filled to bursting with people.
“Look,” a woman says, elbowing her neighbor in the ribs, “that crossbreed’s dared to show up here.”
“I still don’t see why Arthur picked her,” an older man says, pulling on his saucer-sized earlobes. “There are plenty of suitable young squires around who could benefit from his patronage and deserve it so much better than this filly.”
“Shh,” his neighbor says. “She’ll jinx you if she hears you speak like that! I hear her kind always jump at the first opportunity to do evil. Who knows what she’d do to you if she got angry?”
Ears burning, I rush to our pew, forcing some new, wide-eyed pages aside to let me slide in next to Jack.
“Long time no see,” I whisper to the boy, his blue eyes gigantic behind his wire-framed glasses. “Where’s Bri?”
“Uh,” he starts, pushing his glasses up the ridge of his nose, “you’re not supposed to be here, you know.”
I feel my blush spread to the rest of my face at the unexpected rejection from one I’d considered a friend. I bite down on my lip to hold back the unbidden tears, surprised at my own reaction, when Jack points behind me. Turning around, I find Keva glaring at me across the nave, waving furiously for me to join her behind the KORT pews.
“You’re no longer a page, remember?” Jack says with a timid smile.
“Oh, right,” I say, returning his smile before I make my way to the other side, feeling immensely relieved.
Even if everyone else hates me, it’s nice to know that I’ve still got a few people who have my back.
I sit down right as the choir starts its procession down to the altar, carrying the thurible[43], the cross, and a pair of lighted candles. As they spread out around the chancel, Father Tristan emerges from the sanctuary like a disjointed scarecrow in his black cassock. He looks gaunter than he did yesterday at my trial, as if he’s the one who just came out of jail instead of me.
The greeting is barely over when Father Tristan throws himself into another one of his long, fervent sermons, one that makes the hairs at the back of my neck stand on end, and I find myself slouching over in my seat to avoid the reproving gazes that are bound to find me.
“And remember Saint Paul’s words,” Father Tristan’s clear voice intones, his words reverberating around the church, “we do not wrestle against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the cosmic powers over this present darkness, against the forces of evil descended from the heavenly places. Therefore you must not only prepare your bodies for this war, but your minds as well, that you may not fall into their traps and lose yourselves in their false promises.
“It is with this in mind that I urge you to strike now, before the Fey have had the time to gather around Carman, before she herself has garnered her full strength back. Because, mark my words, if they do so, they will march upon the world and there will be no stopping them.”
A long silence pregnant with fear follows his words. One of the pages lets out a muffled sob before being shushed down.
I see Father Tristan’s somber face break into a small smile, as if satisfied with the result of his homily.
“Boy am I glad I’m not in your shoes,” Keva says, pretending to be in earnest prayer next to me. “First Jennifer, then Father Tristan, and now you can add that woman to the list of people who bear a grudge against you.”
She tilts her head towards the south transept where the professors sit, and my jaw clenches shut as I encounter Irene’s cold stare, her dark eyes fixed upon me like I’m a threat that needs to be obliterated.
“She needs to take a pill,” I say, ignoring the chill spreading down my spine. “She always knew that I was…what I am,” I add, the word ‘Fey’ getting stuck in my throat. “It’s not like I chose to be this way.”
“No, but you’ve made it public knowledge that her fiancé of the time had you out of betrothedom, so to speak,” Keva says. “Then you turned her son against her. Not to mention that her creepy lawyer turned out to be working for Carman and used you to free her. That’s like three strikes against her right there.”
“Dean didn’t work for Carman,” I say more loudly, still finding it difficult to hear anyone criticize the man who cared for me in place of my parents. I lower my voice again, “He was her son. Besides, that has nothing to do with me. Why would she be angry at me for that?”
Keva shrugs. “He’s Fey, you’re Fey.” She holds up her hands as if weighing both Dean and me. “Po-tay-to, po-tah-to.”
“It’s not the same,” I say, getting more strident with every word. “I’ve never hurt anyone, which is more than I can say about most people here!”
Heads turn our way, and the murmurs of whispered prayers hush. I hold my breath, only now realizing everyone must have heard what I’ve said. Any second now, people are going to dive for me, drag me outside and burn me at the stake like they burned all those Fomori!
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Lance motion towards Father Tristan, and steel myself for what’s about to happen. But, an eternal second later, the priest’s comfortingly dull voice rings out, urging the congregation back to prayer, and I finally let myself breathe again.
◆◆◆
“Stay close to Arthur,” Keva says, the moment the last blessing has been given. “You’re now at his beck and call at all times, remember that.”
“Believe you me, he won’t get out of my sight,” I grumble. Not until he’s told me all he knows about my father, I silently add.
But I don’t have to worry about losing Arthur in the crowd for he grabs me by the arm and pulls me after him like an angry parent would his disobedient child.
“Ouch, let me go!” I say, trying to pry his fingers off my wrist.
Arthur only tightens his hold on me and I hear people snigger as we pass them on our way out. It isn’t until we reach the burned remains of the asylum that he finally lets me go.
“What do you think you’re doing, shouting nonsense like that in church?” he asks me in a harsh whisper.
“You know what it was about,” I retort, folding my arms, “you heard me.”
“That’s exactl
y the problem!” Arthur snaps. “Everyone in there heard you! As if they needed any more ammunition against me, here you go, reminding everyone around of your link to Carman and her son.”
“There wouldn’t have been a link if your family hadn’t hired Dean to begin with,” I retort. “Why should I get all the blame in this?”
Rubbing his forehead in exasperation, Arthur starts pacing before me, as if searching for a way to explain particle physics to a baby.
“There you are,” a shrill voice says behind us before Arthur can launch himself into another diatribe.
Arthur’s face twitches before he can school his expression, and he turns to face the newcomer. “Lady Irene?” he asks calmly, as if he wasn’t just yelling at me a second ago.
“I want to know what you’re going to do with this little mongrel of yours,” Irene says, her eyes sharp behind her black birdcage veil.
“I fail to see what you are referring to,” Arthur says.
But I know exactly who she means, and I feel my temper rise at the insult. Before I can do anything to her, however, Arthur steps in front Irene so that she’s forced to tip her head all the way back to look at her son.
“Unless you wish to speak with me of matters regarding the Order,” Arthur says, “I’m afraid I cannot make any time for you.”
Irene’s face grows livid, the thick vein on her forehead pulsing more quickly. “I told you not to get involved with that tramp, Arthur,” she says. “She’s tarnishing your reputation at a time when you can’t afford any more bad publicity. And if you insist on keeping her around, you at least need to appease the crowds and placate the opposition by making it clear you have her under control.”
“And how do you suggest he do that?” I ask. “Keeping me leashed at all times?”
“Although I wouldn’t mind seeing that,” Irene replies coldly, “I was thinking of something a little more classical,”—she pauses, her smile stretching over her pale features like a bleeding wound—“like a public beating.”
I exhale quickly. No matter how many times she’s proved me wrong, I still have a hard time accepting such evil intents from someone I once considered my mother.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Arthur says. “We’ve got enough on our hands to worry about without having to throw a circus show in the mix.”
“You’re running a circus show right now,” Irene hisses, flinging her hands towards me, “you two parading together when we all know she helped Carman escape!”
“I didn’t help her, you stupid witch!” I exclaim. “How many times do I have to tell you that before you get it in your pea-sized brain?”
“Morgan!” Arthur exclaims, shocked.
There’s a loud clearing of throat and we all spin around to find Lady Ysolt and Sir Boris coming over to us.
“We are not interrupting anything, we hope?” Lady Ysolt asks, her grimace of distaste belying her words.
“Not at all, Ysolt,” Irene says, tucking a loose curl back into her chignon. She eyes me malevolently. “I was just on my way to report to headquarters.”
“Send my regards to Lady Parcenet, will you?” Lady Ysolt replies.
Irene nods stiffly before hurrying away, and Lady Ysolt and her husband close in on Arthur and me. I watch Sir Boris as he leans heavily on his thick cane, pulling on his long, handlebar moustache thoughtfully. Despite his latest injuries, the man is still imposing and I have to resist the urge to back away from him.
“She is right, you know,” he tells Arthur, rolling his ‘R’s. “You have to be more careful than any of them. You’ve displeased quite a number of people with your latest stunt, and not just on the Board.” His shrewd eyes come to rest on me. “As for you, girl, you’re Gorlois’s heir, one of the greatest knights of our time, and whose family ruled over this Order for centuries. So stand tall, be confident in yourself.”
“Perhaps not too confident,” I hear Lady Ysolt mutter. “She is rather disaster prone.”
I nod to Sir Boris, stunned to silence. I’ve only ever heard my father spoken of in hateful terms, as a traitor and a thief. Never in my wildest dreams did I think a professor, and a Board member at that, would praise him. But before I can find my voice to express my gratitude, Lady Ysolt thrusts some forms in front of me.
“Fill these out,” she says, “then return them to Lady Vivian. It’s for your custodianship transferal. And please do try to stay out of trouble.”
She wheels around and, with a nod to Arthur, marches away, Sir Boris limping after her.
I look down at the papers curiously, only to have them snatched away.
“Your license to freedom, huh?” Percy says with a wicked grin. “Let’s see…” He riffles through the pages and his eyes go round, a low whistle escaping his lips. “Well, well, would ya look at that?”
“What?” I ask, reading over his shoulder.
He holds up a recent bank statement and when I see the numbers, I go weak in the legs. There’s no other appropriate response to finding out you’re a billionaire, short from passing out cold.
“Don’t believe even the Pendragons got this much tin[44],” Percy says, shaking his head in amazement.
“Too bad no amount of money can change her personality,” Jennifer says, gliding over to us and nabbing my account statements from Percy.
“Give those back,” I growl.
Jennifer cocks an eyebrow at me. “Or else…?” she asks petulantly, but Arthur plucks the papers from her slender fingers and hands them back to me before she can peruse them.
“I don’t believe this is anybody’s business but Morgan’s,” he says.
Jennifer smiles at me genially, a true Saint in the making if it weren’t for the dead look in her eyes that she can’t quite mask. “Honey, I was wondering whether you were ready to head to the dining hall?” she asks Arthur. Her dainty hand comes to rest possessively on his sleeve like a pale butterfly. “It’s been a while since we’ve had a chat and I thought we could catch up.”
“That’s a great idea,” I tell the two of them with a fake joviality of my own, edging towards Percy who looks ready to bolt himself. “You guys can go play the bashful lovers in your corner while I go have breakfast with my friends.”
But I don’t make three steps before a hand seizes my collar and tugs me backward.
“Not so fast,” Arthur says.
I try to shake him off, but his fingers are firmly hooked in my jacket. Arthur turns quickly to his fiancée.
“There’s nothing that’s happened that you don’t already know,” he says. “I need to show this one what her new duties entail. But don’t let me detain you, I don’t know how long this is going to take and I wouldn’t want you to miss breakfast.”
Though I rejoice in seeing Jennifer boil with indignation at his rebuttal, I don’t relish the thought of being caught in Arthur’s clutches again—literally and figuratively.
“Let go of me!” I say as I watch Percy get dragged away by a furious Jennifer.
“Only if you promise not to run away,” Arthur says lightly.
I twist around so that we’re face to face in a very close, very uncomfortable embrace.
We stare at each other for a moment, eyeball to eyeball, before Arthur finally releases me, his face beet red. I straighten my jacket and scowl at him.
“I don’t want to miss breakfast,” I say. “I haven’t had a proper meal in weeks, in case you’ve forgotten, and I won’t be a pawn in whatever little game you’re playing here.”
“This isn’t a game,” Arthur says, the blush receding from his face in splotches. “In case you hadn’t noticed, I’ve been sticking my neck out for you over and over again. Yet somehow you’re always the one who swings the axe down.”
“If only you weren’t being metaphorical,” I say, with a heartfelt sigh.
Arthur lets out a heavy sigh then says, “Just follow me.”
Despite my best intentions, I trail after him across the gravelly path, though not without dragging my feet
. “I want to make something clear,” I say as the Eastern door comes into view, its dark wood gleaming dully in the flickering light of the tall torches that line the path.
Arthur flicks his hand in annoyance, uttering a word under his breath. A flash of green erupts from one of his rings and the heavy, oaken door flies open to let us in.
Realizing I’m no longer following him, Arthur stops. “What is it?” he finally asks with a guarded air.
“Two things,” I say. “First, I’m not going to be your personal slave.”
“A squire is not a slave,” he says slowly. “The second?”
“I want you to tell me about my father,” I say past the growing lump in my throat.
“Deal,” Arthur says immediately.
My mouth drops open. “Just like that?”
Arthur shrugs. “It’s going to be easy since I don’t know all that much about him.”
So there’s the hitch, I realize with a frown, but I suppose I’ll have to make do with it. For now.
And on that thought, I hurry after him. Instead of turning down towards the dining hall, as my stomach demands it, Arthur heads in the opposite direction, towards the staircase located at the back of the armory.
“You’ve got to understand,” he tells me on our way up, “that being a squire requires a number of things from you. It’s not slave work, mind, but it’s work nonetheless. You’ll have to take care of my armor and weapons, for one”—we emerge onto the second landing and head down its main corridor—“that includes replacing anything that’s broken, and dressing me.”
Arthur stops before what I can only assume is his bedroom, one door down from the KORT room, and I snort. “So not going to happen,” I say
Arthur shakes his head. “Meaning you help me put my armor on before battle and official events,” he says. “You really need to get your head out of the gutter.”
“I-I never…” I stammer then clamp my mouth shut when I see him gloating.
Arthur coughs, becoming serious once more, and adds, “It also includes a number of other courtly etiquette requirements, but I won’t hold you up to them. At least not now while we’re in Lake High, but…”
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