by AJ Lancaster
Copyright © 2020 by AJ Lancaster
All rights reserved.
ISBN 978-0-473-49912-9 (e-book)
ISBN 978-0-473-49911-2 (Paperback)
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Cover design © Jennifer Zemanek/Seedlings Design Studio
Created with Vellum
To Erin, who has chill when I have none.
Contents
1. Lady Phoebe Nearly Has A Conversation
2. Princess Sunnika
3. Fairy Bats
4. Reflections
5. Lightning Experiments
6. An Old Flame
7. The Prince And The Lord
8. Land Management
9. Unconventional Methods Of Transportation
10. A Summons
11. Fire And Air
12. Lady Peregrine's Society News
13. Long Distance Communications
14. Meridon
15. Queen Matilda
16. The Griffin Theatre
17. Politicking
18. Newspapers And Coffee
19. Holding Court
20. Choices
21. Balcony Encounters
22. The Definitive Compendium Of Fairies In Common Folk Lore
23. Night Flights
24. Wyrm
25. Rude Awakenings
26. The Queen Is Not Amused
27. The Train Station
28. Silversine Park
29. Breakfast Flirtations
30. The Meridon Times
31. Blood And Iron
32. The Law Library
33. Opening Night
34. Box Seats
35. The Kutrass
36. Of Lesser And Greater Fae
37. Summoning
38. Soap And Politics
39. Pillow Talk
40. The Morning After
41. Obsidian
42. Coffee And Crumpets
43. The Octagon Garden
44. Signatures
45. A Quiet Drink
46. Aroset Tempestren
47. Aftereffects
48. A Minor Celebrity
49. Home Remedies
50. Paperwork
51. To The Spires
52. Consequences
Author’s Note
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by AJ Lancaster
1
Lady Phoebe Nearly Has A Conversation
“Hetta, dear, you know I’m very fond of Mr Tempest,” her stepmother began ominously, hovering awkwardly on the edge of her seat in the study. Phoebe had invited herself in for tea a quarter of an hour ago and had been slowly working herself up to this conversation since. Now her hands fluttered awkwardly as she finally neared her point: “And I don’t like to interfere, but you are the lord and—”
Hetta hastily swallowed the sip of coffee she’d just taken, in order to interrupt. “And I deeply appreciate your non-interference!” She put the now-empty cup aside and rose in what she hoped was an authoritative way. “Now I really must be going; I need to speak with Mr Brown today.”
It wasn’t truly a lie; she had arranged to speak to the man who ran the Home Farm today, though technically that appointment wasn’t until somewhat later. She glanced out the window in that direction, though the vast copper beeches screened the Home Farm from view. Fragments of cold sunshine filtered between wisps of cloud, and her land-sense told her the wind would rise throughout the day, bringing rain after sundown.
Phoebe gave a small sigh and put her own cup aside, recalling Hetta’s attention. “Oh. Yes, yes of course. But…perhaps we could speak about it later?”
Or perhaps we could speak about it never, since I know what you’re going to say already, and it’s none of your business! She had to bite her tongue from replying. Phoebe didn’t deserve her wrath; she was, in her own misguided way, trying to help, so Hetta mastered her irritation and said tactfully, “I’ll see you at dinner.” She moved quickly to the study door and let herself out into the hallway before Phoebe could protest.
Stomping along the hallway wasn’t a particularly mature approach to the situation, but it was better than snapping at her relatives or tenants, so she gave in to the urge as she made her way through the house. If only her family hadn’t all seen Wyn kiss her last year! Before that they’d been perfectly unconcerned about what Stariel’s lord got up to when alone with the steward. But ever since Wintersol, she’d been subjected to everything from condescending lectures about family honour and propriety from the likes of Aunt Sybil to Marius’s thinly veiled excuses to chaperone her every waking moment before he’d gone down to university at the start of term. Her younger siblings’ reactions had varied from disgust (Gregory), staunch support (Alexandra), to embarrassing curiosity (little Laurel).
How foolish of me to think being lord would gain me more freedom in that department rather than less. Being scandalous whilst far away and low in the family hierarchy hadn’t exactly been acceptable, but it had been ignorable. Of all the adjustments she’d had to make when she’d returned to Stariel Estate after living in the great Southern capital for years, that was probably the hardest. There, she’d been anonymous, but here she had no such luxury, and sometimes it made her yearn to be back at the theatre with her company.
She paused to glare into Grandfather Marius’s eyes at the top of the stairs down to the entrance hall, the painting serving as a proxy for every interfering family member over the last few months. The past lord simply continued to look down his long nose, aristocratically disapproving as ever. She huffed at him and carried on down the stairs. Why do they all care so much about my personal affairs anyway? Haven’t we got far greater concerns to worry about, between repairs and linesmen and bank loans? Her family’s disapproval also seemed particularly unfair given that between them and the needs of the estate, she and Wyn had had precious little time for impropriety in any case.
That thought pulled her up short, and she halted as she reached the front door. Halfway up its smooth length was a circle of slightly different coloured wood where the door had been repaired after a fireball had damaged it—Jack had been very provoking that day. She touched her hand to the spot and had a short, guilty debate with herself.
Even though she wasn’t actually due to meet with Jack and Mr Brown until later, a responsible lord still ought to use her morning efficiently. Since she’d left the accounts books back in her study, she couldn’t mull over the estate’s finances as she’d originally intended—but there were any number of other things that could do with her attention. Such as, to pluck a random example from her list, detouring to the library to continue her reading about sheep breeding. The library where she knew Wyn did lessons with Alexandra on this day each week—a lesson that would probably be ending very shortly.
Hetta made a face at the door and admitted to herself that sheep were unlikely to make an appearance in this scenario. She turned back towards the entrance hall anyway, her heart growing lighter with anticipation. The estate could just cope with her being Hetta-the-woman and not Hetta-the-lord for a short while; she was determined that the latter wouldn’t swallow the former whole.
“Hetta!” Her half-sister Alexandra’s voice sounded from the landing, making Hetta look up in surprise; clearly she and Wyn had finished their anti-compulsion lesson earlier than usual, then.
“How did the lesson go?” Hetta asked, searching Alexandra’s expression. Alexandra had insisted Wyn tr
y to teach her to resist compulsion, ever since Aroset had used that fae magic on her a few months ago. She’d been having nightmares. Anything that made her feel less helpless had to be a good thing, even though the lessons never left either participant in a great mood. But Alexandra seemed even more agitated than usual this morning.
Alexandra jerked her head in a wholly ambivalent motion. “Okay, I suppose.” She was holding a piece of paper, and she glanced down at it and bit her lip before hesitantly beginning to descend.
A black kitten abruptly raced down the stairs in front of her, and Alexandra had to stop rather hurriedly to avoid treading on it. The kitten skidded to a halt in the entry hall and meowed up at Hetta. Since this one had taken a particular shine to Wyn, she couldn’t help scanning the upper landing for a sign of him. But Wyn didn’t appear, and Alexandra finished her descent without further misadventure, holding the piece of paper out to Hetta.
“It’s from Wyn. He received it a few minutes ago, in the library—a wyldfae delivered it.” Alexandra shaped the word ‘wyldfae’ tentatively; all of them were still adjusting to the new realities of their world. “He asked me to bring it to you.”
Hetta took the note curiously. On thick, expensive paper in red, glittering calligraphy were the words: 10 o’clock, Starshine. Beneath those, a hastily scrawled addition in Wyn’s handwriting.
This isn’t your debt. Debrief at the Stones, after?
A chill went down her spine, her wistful plans vanishing in an instant, because it wasn’t hard to work out what the red calligraphy meant, not when the paper smelled like cherries and beeswax. Fae magic had scents—signatures specific to the person responsible for it—but even if she hadn’t recognised this signature as belonging to Wyn’s ex-fiancée, Princess Sunnika was the only person he currently owed a debt to. The princess had absolved him of his promise to marry her, in return for a favour unspecified. Was she calling in that favour now?
She stared at the princess’s words, smoothing her thumb over the velvety texture of the paper. Despite the physical object, the summons still seemed faintly unreal. Oh, she’d known, when she’d dragged Wyn back through the portal to Stariel months ago, that that wouldn’t be the end of it, but it would’ve been nice to be wrong, and the quiet months since had lulled her into a false sense of security. It’s not fair, she had the childish urge to say. Surely bank loans and her badgering relatives were trials enough for anyone without having to deal with fae politics as well?
Stariel surged up in query, and she reassured it.
The kitten meowed again, blinking up at her expectantly, as if she would suddenly produce Wyn if it complained sufficiently. Alexandra bent down and picked it up, and it grumblingly accepted the substitute. Its purr was much too large for such a small creature, echoing in the entrance hall.
Hetta read Wyn’s note again and had a sudden urge to shake the paper in lieu of him. This isn’t your debt, he’d written. Him trying to keep her and Stariel out of anything involving Princess Sunnika was all very well and noble, but also completely foolish. Hadn’t they agreed they were in this together now? At least he’d sensibly named a rendezvous location outside the house after his ill-thought-out meeting, so she could rail at him for his foolishness at length without being interrupted by helpful ‘chaperones’.
She glanced at the clock in the entrance hall, which showed two minutes to the hour, and some of her irritation ebbed. It explained at least why he hadn’t brought this to her in person. Even flying, it would be a stretch to reach the boundary at Starshine in time.
As she thought the location, her land-sense stretched automatically out of the house, unravelling across the lake and down the course of the River Starshine to where the water crossed the estate boundary, deep in the woods to the south-west. The cool shade under the trees and the trickle of the water seeped into her. Pine needles and the bright green of budding oak leaves swayed, and her senses filled with the small sounds of the forest.
A tall, winged figure landed with a thump on the banks of the river just inside the border. He looked different through Stariel’s eyes, and not only because he was in his fae form, a bright blaze of foreign magic unconnected to the estate. His wings lit up in the sunshine, hundreds of overlapping jewels. They were blue now rather than white, though little flashes of iridescent purple, indigo, and even emerald caught the light as his feathers rustled in the slight breeze. Silver frosted each wing tip. It was the first time she’d ‘seen’ him in his fae form since their return from ThousandSpire, even though that had been several months ago now.
Stariel curled around him like a cat, as if it would scent-mark him if it could. Before ThousandSpire, the land had viewed him with suspicious jealousy, but those events had swung its attitude from one extreme to the other.
Wyn frowned and turned a slow circle, as if he knew he was being watched. He gave a small, wry smile, and said softly: “Tell Hetta I’ll be careful.”
“What does it mean, Hetta?”
Her sister’s voice pulled her back to the entrance hall, and the world wobbled slightly as she found herself back within the limits of her own body again.
She swallowed to rid her mouth of the taste of pine needles, unsettled. Spying on people using her land-sense wasn’t a path she wanted to go down, not after seeing where it had led King Aeros. But Stariel was so ready to zero in on Wyn with the slightest encouragement, these days. Which is almost definitely my fault, she reflected.
“Hetta?” Alexandra repeated, this time with a trace of concern. “It’s about fae things, isn’t it?”
Hetta shook herself back to the present again. “Sorry, Stariel and I were having a conversation.” She’d had to admit to this more than once over the last few months, to explain her moments of abstraction. Her father had never had this problem, that she remembered, but then again Stariel had undoubtedly not been as magical back then, before the Iron Law came down. Not for the first time, she wished faelands came with a manual.
Alexandra raised her eyebrows and looked at the note meaningfully. “Isn’t it?” she repeated.
Hetta frowned down at it. “Yes. But not dangerous fae things, I don’t think.” I hope. Princess Sunnika had been relatively friendly, in the past, or at least what passed for it among the royalfae Hetta had met. But still, why did Wyn have to be so very reckless about his own safety?
At least if she went up to the Stones now, she could spend some of her anxiety in magic while she waited for him. Emotion made her pyromancy stronger, though it had the opposite effect on her illusion, which required a cool head and fine control to do well.
But before she could move, a knock sounded at the front door, and both she and Alexandra swivelled towards it. In theory, Hetta knew she shouldn’t open her own front door. But there was no sign of the hall boy, and it was frankly ridiculous to leave someone to wait on the chilly stone steps because of that.
She opened the door. There was a pause.
“Apologies, my lord,” said the man on the doorstep, doffing his hat after a moment of blinking confusion. Hetta recognised him as Mr Plimmer, the foreman in charge of the men currently repairing the Dower House. “I meant to ask to speak to the steward.” He looked sheepishly around the foyer. “I see this wasn’t the right door.”
“Oh, come in,” she said, trying to adjust to the sudden change from fantastical
to mundane. “But Mr Tempest is currently unavailable. What do you wish to see him about?” She dragged a rough idea of the schedule from memory, though Wyn had had far more to do with the day-to-day work than her. Making the Dower House habitable so it could be rented out was, after all, a key part of securing more funds for Stariel’s future. “How are the roof repairs going?”
The foreman shifted uneasily from foot to foot, looking extremely apprehensive. “That’s the problem, my lord. They’re not. There’s, um, a bat problem.”
“Bats,” she repeated blankly, inwardly rather relieved. The foreman’s expression had suggested something much worse.
“Yes, my lord. Bats. Problem is, they’re in the roof. My crew can’t work with them there.”
Her mind tried to stray back to Wyn’s location at the boundary, and she jerked it back. No. She was the lord; she needed to deal with this, even if household pests seemed quite beside the point right now.
“Well, I admit I’ve no idea how one goes about de-batting a roof, but surely this is a problem to which there exists a solution…” She was about to ask him what he’d suggest when an idea occurred to her. “Actually, now I think of it, I’ll be of much more use to you than Mr Tempest.”