by AJ Lancaster
This comment required no small amount of explaining to the two fae.
“You are treating with DuskRose, Lord Valstar?” Catsmere asked with narrowed eyes.
“Well, I’m not at war with them, if that’s what you mean,” Hetta said. Honestly, ‘treating’—was it compulsory for all fae to speak in the most old-fashioned manner possible? “But we’re not exactly negotiating a treaty.” Could Stariel even do that, by itself, or was that something else they would need Queen Matilda’s permission for? Princess Sunnika had mentioned negotiations when she’d first come to Stariel. What would a treaty between a single estate and an entire fae kingdom even look like? Maybe we agree to swap sheep for teleportation services on demand, Hetta mused.
Catsmere and Rakken exchanged one of their silent communications.
“I do not trust the Court of Dusken Roses,” Catsmere said grimly.
Rakken’s mouth curled as he watched Hetta. “I believe Lord Valstar wishes to say that she doesn’t trust us.”
“I don’t trust either of the courts, Your Highness. I’m treating you all with equal-opportunity suspicion.”
Rakken canted his head, the gesture eerily similar to Wyn’s. “Tell me, do you include my brother in this broad-brush distrust of fae? He isn’t human, and he won’t be, no matter how the two of you try to pretend.”
“You can’t be offended that Hetta doesn’t trust the Spires. They did, after all, kidnap her last year,” Marius said into the tense silence.
Aunt Sybil made a highly offended sound, and everyone ignored her.
“I was not involved in that,” Rakken said.
“Yes, but you did think it was funny to poison Wyn,” Hetta pointed out.
“A poison I made sure he had an antidote to.” Rakken’s eyes gleamed. “Tell me, Lord Valstar, does he still?” She scowled at him, refusing to answer, and he laughed, low and chocolate-rich. Even Aunt Sybil’s outraged expression softened at the sound. “Oh, you make me suspect he does. What a poor-spirited beau, to leave you so unsatisfied.”
The antidote to that poison had been the blood of a virgin. Which Hetta was definitely not discussing with Wyn’s brother, ever, and particularly not at the breakfast table surrounded by the rest of her family.
Catsmere had grown impatient with their exchange. She stood, tall and imperial and oddly fashionable with her short, sleek haircut. “If this lesser fae is in the city and involved in our brother’s disappearance, we will find her and she will pay,” she promised. She raised a brow at Rakken, who shook his head.
“No—you hunt. I intend to see Stariel’s treaty with their mortal queen.”
Marius choked on a mouthful of tea.
Rakken smiled sardonically. “Yes, Marius Valstar. That does mean you get the pleasure of my company.”
Hetta looked at her brother. “In that case, shall I—”
But Marius flushed and interrupted her before she could offer to accompany them. “I don’t need a babysitter, Hetta, and he can’t compel me. He’s welcome to come and be as heartily bored as he likes.” He coughed, still recovering from the tea, and hastily took a sip of water instead. The liquid seemed to steel him, and his grey eyes were determined when they met hers. “Go and talk to the newspaper.”
“All right,” she said. There wasn’t really any other answer to give, now that Marius had stuck his stubborn feet in. She’d only hurt him if she implied he couldn’t handle Rakken. At least he was immune to compulsion. And really, what was the worst that could happen, in a library? Still, she pinned both twins with her gaze. “But both of you remember this is a human city.”
30
The Meridon Times
Lady Peregrine’s Society News’ street address turned out to be located at the offices of a much larger and more respectable newspaper, and Hetta narrowed her eyes as she took in the familiar logo, which she’d seen staring at her from every street corner for six years: the Meridon Times. Presumably Lady Peregrine’s was a lucrative sideline for the larger press. Did Lady Peregrine even exist, or was the alias merely a convenient fiction? Hetta had always assumed the latter, though it tickled her to imagine the namesake as a real-life woman looming in corners (she bore a more-than-passing resemblance to Aunt Maude) and pursing her lips in delight as she caught morsels of scandal.
The entrance was bustling with paper boys and reporters going in and out through a revolving glass door. No one paid any attention to her, though she was fairly sure she had at least one queensguard watcher following her. There hadn’t seemed much point trying to lose the tail; it wasn’t as if the reason for her visit here would be any great mystery to anyone who’d read that magazine article.
She felt brittle, like an ice sheet shot through with spiderweb-thin cracks, and she’d reached for the ring so often in the last two days that it had become an unconscious tic, the warm metal pressing against her breastbone beneath her dress. Stariel reflected back an echo of her worry. Wyn’s alive. There’s no reason to think otherwise, she told herself sternly. Rakken and Catsmere would know somehow if he wasn’t.
She took a deep breath and marched up the steps. She would wring the name of Lady Peregrine’s source from them, and hopefully it would tell her where to go next. Where to find Wyn. Gods, she missed him. For a moment, the ice creaked, but she couldn’t—wouldn’t—fall apart now.
She suffered a check at the reception desk in the form of a steely-eyed receptionist who informed Hetta in clipped tones that the editor of Lady Peregrine’s was not available.
“Well, when will they be available?”
The receptionist looked down her nose at Hetta, a tactic she was used to, since the Valstar nose was also very good for looking down, and many of her relatives frequently used it for this purpose. “For what purpose do you want an appointment, Miss…?”
“It’s Lord, actually. Lord Valstar. Lady Peregrine’s Society News made some petty aspersions about my staff recently and threatened to make more in their next issue, which I rather object to.” The receptionist’s eyes widened slightly at Hetta’s name. “Yes, I see you remember the article. I’d like to speak to whoever is responsible for that.”
The receptionist told Hetta to wait. After that, there were a lot of conversations in hushed whispers and people hurrying off, hopefully to tell someone higher up in the organisation that there was an unhappy lord sitting in their reception and they’d dashed well better become available. Maybe she shouldn’t have charged into things quite so bluntly, but she was sick of all this shadow boxing. And why shouldn’t the magazine know what she thought of them? She was the wronged party here!
Eventually, Hetta was shown into the office of a gaunt middle-aged man wreathed in smiles, who introduced himself as Mr Walter.
“Please sit, Lord Valstar.” He waved at a chair across from his desk. “My apologies for the quality of the accommodations. We’re not used to entertaining.”
He had no idea what kind of life she’d led before her lordship, she realised. And no idea that old and venerable though Stariel House might be, it’s hardly luxurious. “Are you Lady Peregrine?” she asked.
The man twinkled at her. “Ah, her ladyship doesn’t take interviews, but you can trust that she hears all from us mere underlings. What can I do for you, my lord?” He had bright eyes, like a magpie, ready to swoop down on any gleam of information. A frisson of unease went through her. She must be careful not to tell this man anything he didn’t already know, or no doubt it would make an appearance in tomorrow’s Times.
“I want to know what information you based your article on.”
Mr Walter chuckled. “Now, now, Lord Valstar, a newspaperman never reveals his sources.”
“So you claim to have a source, then, rather than fabricating a story from hearsay?”
Mr Walter bristled. “Lady Peregrine’s may not be the Times, my lady, but we do not print hearsay.”
“The correct address is ‘my lord’,” Hetta said coolly. It was a common error for Southerners. “But if
you were so sure of your sources, why was that article so anxious to avoid naming me or my steward? To me, that implies you were worried about a defamation case.”
“Now, that’s a—”
“And correct me if I’m wrong, but an article could only be considered defamatory if the claims it makes aren’t true.”
Irritation crossed Mr Walter’s face, quickly papered over with insincere concern. “I can understand your feelings, Lord Valstar. Would you like to make a statement, correct the public misconception, as it were?” He picked up a pen and folded open a notebook. “Your steward, for instance. Is it true that he’s related to Lord Featherstone?”
Hetta burst out laughing. “No, he’s not,” she said, deciding there was no harm in that snippet and probably quite a lot of good. Goodness knows what the real Lord Featherstone would make of that rumour if it reached his ears, but it probably wouldn’t move him to support her on the Northern Lords Conclave. “But I’m not going to give you an interview. I just want to know who your source is.” She watched him carefully for a reaction. “Did they write to you?”
“Alas, I am obliged to keep their identity anonymous.”
“Can you tell me if it’s a man or a woman, at least?” That might narrow it down a little.
“Perhaps we could trade information.” His eyes narrowed in sudden calculation. “What do you know of the incident at the palace yesterday?”
Hetta eyed the man with dislike, though she supposed he was only doing his job. “Will you give me the name of your source if I tell you?” It was probably only a matter of time before the story of the nightwyrm came out. Maybe it would be better for a factually correct account to be published instead of the mishmash of nonsense she’d so far seen.
Mr Walter looked torn, but eventually shook his head. “The anonymity of our sources is sacrosanct.”
Hetta could see he meant it. She tried another tack. “What if I tell you in exchange for you promising not to run another article?” She felt very fae, all of a sudden, bartering favours. She gestured vaguely in the direction of the palace. “Since I don’t believe you can top that for newsworthiness.” The bank attack in Alverness by a swarm of lowfae had nothing on the nightwyrm.
He smiled, a narrow smile full of sudden delight. “Oh, you don’t think so, Lord Valstar? You don’t think Meridon or the queen will care about you endorsing fae attacks on Prydein’s citizenry?”
“What?”
Mr Walter shrugged. “Our source suggests that you are under an enchantment and that you’re not responsible for your actions.” He paused. “But you don’t seem to be enchanted, do you?”
The word triggered a memory of Lord Angus glaring at Wyn: “What enchantments have you cast over Hetta?”
She dug her nails into her palms. Oh, if Angus was responsible for this, she’d burn Penharrow Estate to the ground.
Hetta left the interview in a fury that faltered at the sight of Catsmere waiting by the receptionist’s desk. The fae woman had to be doing something with glamour to make people’s gazes slide around her, because she was making absolutely no attempt to blend in. She didn’t have her wings out, but that was the only concession she’d made to being in a mortal city. Otherwise, she was dressed in—well, Hetta would’ve called it ‘men’s clothing’ except it was clearly designed for Catsmere, and she didn’t look at all male in it. She looked dangerous, comfortable, and expensive—not a combination I would’ve thought possible, before now. It made Hetta eye the outfit speculatively and reflect that the introduction of fae fashions into the Mortal Realm might be one of the few unambiguous benefits to come out of the Iron Law’s revocation.
“Lord Valstar,” Catsmere greeted. The receptionist didn’t appear to hear or notice her. She watched Hetta walk over to Catsmere but abruptly lost interest as soon as soon as she got within three feet of the fae. Glamour.
Exhausted of politeness, she simply asked: “Why are you here? Did you find Gwendelfear?”
Catsmere shook her head. “I did not.”
“Do you know if she’s still in the city? Is there some way you can tell?” It seemed unfair for everyone’s quests this morning to fail to bear fruit.
“I do not know. Faerie is thin and weak here.” Something of Hetta’s frustration clearly showed, for Catsmere added, “Mouse has made contact with the local wyldfae; if the lesser fae is here, we will get word of it, sooner or later.”
“Oh,” she said vaguely. ‘Sooner or later’ didn’t feel very reassuring, and the receptionist’s continued inattention prickled against her neck. Abruptly, she couldn’t bear to just keep standing here and ignoring her presence. “Well, I’m going back to the hotel to call my cousin,” she said, moving away from Catsmere. She mightn’t be able to put her own hands round Angus’s throat, but Jack would make a fair proxy in the meantime.
Catsmere canted her head. “May I accompany you?”
Hetta paused mid-step, curious despite herself. “Is this why you followed me here after you failed to find Gwendelfear? To talk to me alone?”
“Yes,” Catsmere agreed easily. Her frankness was oddly refreshing.
“Well, I was planning to cut across Crown Park to the main road to catch a hackney, but you’re welcome to talk to me as I do.” She gestured for the fae to go before her through the revolving door. Catsmere’s expression narrowed, and she drew herself up to her not-inconsiderable height, much like a cat bristling, as if about to forcefully refuse the direction, but then she smoothed out again and led the way out into the morning without comment.
Was there some kind of royal protocol for exiting buildings? Hetta wondered, bemused by the whole interaction. Or perhaps she just doesn’t like having people at her back. The Spires seemed like the kind of violent place that would encourage that degree of mistrust. Her bemusement changed to something heavier.
Catsmere was silent as they made their way out of the newspaper’s stableyard and onto the public street. The morning was bright and hopeful, though there was a wet hint in the air that promised rain later. Hetta almost reached for Stariel for more information on the weather before remembering there was no point.
Catsmere reminded her strongly of a guard dog, constantly scanning her surroundings, alert but not alarmed as they crossed the street towards the park. “Will you try to make my brother choose you over the Spires?” she asked, as if this was the kind of question you could just ask a person with no warning.
Hetta bristled. “I’m not going to make Wyn do anything. But you have to know he doesn’t want to go back to the Spires.” She clung to that certainty. Wyn wanted to stay with her, and Stariel, and why shouldn’t both of them get what they wanted in this instance? The oaths she’d made when she became lord were to think of Stariel’s interests, not ThousandSpire’s. The other faeland could just find someone else to bond to.
“And is he happy here, playing human?” Catsmere sounded genuinely curious.
“If this is some attempt to persuade me to give him up—” she began suspiciously, but Catsmere waved a dismissive hand.
“We have agreed it is Mouse’s job to do the persuading—or the sweet-talking, should such be required,” she said with absolute seriousness.
Hetta raised an eyebrow. “Is that what you call his flirting with my aunt this morning?”
Catsmere shrugged. “Flirtation is a form of persuasion, Lord Valstar. I would not attempt it with either you or your aunt, but then I have no taste for mortals. You are all so very…fragile. Mouse is less discerning, and he has little compunctions about employing whatever methods he deems appropriate.”
Hetta stumbled on the gravel path, not quite sure she’d understood that correctly. She gave the fae woman a sidelong glance, trying to judge.
A slight smile curled on Catsmere’s lips. “Don’t encourage Mouse, unless you wish to pursue that kind of intimacy from him.” She wrinkled her nose. “Which I would rather not hear about, if that is the case.”
So she had understood correctly. Her cheeks fe
lt hot. Could this truly be an acceptable topic of conversation in Faerie? “Thank you, but I don’t wish to encourage anything from anyone except Wyn,” she said firmly, trying to get her expression under control. She’d be dashed if she’d let Catsmere discompose her here in her city. “Is this Rake’s cunning plan then? Attempt to seduce me so I forget Wyn and don’t try to stop him going to the Spires?” It didn’t sound any less laughable said out loud.
“Oh, no, Lord Valstar,” Catsmere said blandly. “You’ve misunderstood me. I think Mouse is, on the contrary, interested in the potential advantages to be had for the Spires from a relationship between you and little Hollow, and I don’t think he wishes to sever that tie. I was merely giving you warning that he will take his lead from you in this.”
Hetta stopped in the middle of the footpath, not sure whether she wanted to laugh or set fire to the fae princess. “You’re trying to test how loyal I am to Wyn?!” she accused. “Using Rake as bait!”
Catsmere blinked down at her. “Obviously.”
“No, that wasn’t obvious, thank you very much! Obviously I’m not going to swap Wyn for the nearest pretty face! Obviously if he meant so little to me, I wouldn’t be here! And even more obviously, if I did choose to stray—which I have no intention of doing, just to be excruciatingly clear—it certainly wouldn’t be with Rake!”
“You do look at him a lot.” Catsmere’s eyes were wide and guileless, an eerie match for Wyn’s expression when he was being deliberately provoking, and Hetta knew in that moment that she was being teased. It didn’t make her any less irritated.
“That doesn’t mean I like him! It just means I have eyes! And I love Wyn!” The word came out as half a shout, but it clanged even louder in her chest. She hadn’t said it nearly enough to Wyn to be saying it to everyone else in his absence. She glared at Catsmere and began to walk again, anger in every step. Honestly. The woman fell in beside her without comment, and they strode past several sets of less-energetic pedestrians. The branches of the park’s trees were still largely bare, but little bursts of vividly green new growth were scattered here and there, almost a match for the colour of Catsmere’s eyes.