glance back at Sunny now and again to be certain they were not getting too far ahead.
Sunny dipped and weaved, but stayed in the air. Mistress Winter’s face was rigid. She kept a reassuring hand on Sunny’s neck, while with the other, she held the reins up, not loose, but level, trying to keep the mare’s head steady.
Lark turned her gaze forward, searching the land for a place, a lane, a park, a street, where the wounded horse could come down. “Kalla, where? Where’s our place?” she muttered.
And then, as if a beam of sunlight had suddenly illuminated it, she saw the alley that stretched between two ramshackle warehouses. It was empty of carts or wagons, empty even of any stacked barrels or other objects. The opening of the alley looked wide enough for the horses’ wings, but it narrowed quickly as it led to a loading dock that blocked one end. The horses would not have long to run off the speed of their landing.
But it was all there was.
Lark reined Tup toward it, nudging him with her right knee, shifting her weight to help him bank to the left. There were men on the docks, pointing out into the bay, shading their eyes as they tried to see what was happening. She prayed they would stay out of the way, that they would see the two winged horses descending, would not step into their path. She sensed Winter Sunset behind Tup, falling into his pattern, letting his steady flight guide her faltering one.
The men on the docks fell back, leaving the mouth of the alley open. Tup slowed his wings and glided.
His forefeet reached, touched, and his hind feet came down with a clatter of hooves on cobblestones. He beat his wings once for balance. And then, even as he cantered forward, he began to fold them, seeing the narrowness of the alley. He trotted the moment he could, but still the loading dock came upon them frighteningly fast. Tup skidded to a stop only a hand’s breadth from its wooden platform. And then, without being told, he sidestepped, giving Winter Sunset as much of the space as he could.
Lark leaped from the saddle the moment Tup was still and braced herself to help.
Winter Sunset came soaring into the alley, off-balance, her good wing extended, her broken one flapping pitifully. Mistress Winter was in an odd position, leaning to one side in her saddle, one hand reaching forward, the other gripping the pommel. At first Lark couldn’t figure it out, and then she realized that Mistress Winter was holding Sunny’s fractured wing together with her own hand, giving her every chance of coming safely to ground, with no thought for her own safety.
Winter Sunset’s feet touched, and her wings quivered, one beating, the other one trying to, but giving her very little lift. For an awful moment it seemed she might fall, that the momentum of her flight was too much for her injured state. Then, just as Lark put both hands to her mouth in anticipation of the worst, the great sorrel mare found all four feet on the ground. Her good wing began to fold, and her bad one dragged horribly, but she cantered a few steps, then trotted, reaching the end of the alley a moment later, dripping sweat and blood and foam.
A movement at the end of the alley caught Lark’s eye, and she cried out. “Mistress Winter! Look out!”
It was Diamond. She careened toward the alley after the other horses, her wings shivering with exhaustion, her hooves out of their tuck. Lark heard the watching men on the docks shout a warning, whether to each other or to her, she couldn’t tell. The filly struck the cobblestones so hard Lark felt the jarring in her own bones. She bounced up again, her wings lifting her from the ground, then settled a little more gently. The whole routine repeated one more time before she found her balance and came galloping up the alley, wings drooping, head down.
Lark leaped to stand behind Winter Sunset, to stop the filly, somehow, from crashing into the already-wounded mare. Diamond saw her, and threw up her head, spreading her wings in a desperate effort to stop her headlong rush. She looked like a great silver swan landing on a lake, her feet sliding, her wings out, her neck stretched up and back. At the last possible moment, she skidded on her hind feet, rearing, coming so close that her wings brushed Lark’s head.
And then, with a groan, Diamond settled to the ground, too tired even to fold her wings.
Lark stepped close to her and let the filly rest her forehead on her chest. She encircled her head with both arms, and breathed into her ear, “There, now. There, now, my lovely, fine girl. You’re safe. You’re safe here with us.” The filly panted, great gasps of air that blew foam over Lark’s tabard. Her legs
trembled. Many minutes passed before she was able to fold her wings. When Lark released her, she stood with her head down, shivering with exhaustion.
Lark looked up to find Tup standing as close as he could to Diamond, watching the alley as if for fresh dangers. His eyes gleamed, and his ears flicked this way and that.
“ ’Tis all over, my Tup,” Lark said. “All over.”
But it wasn’t, not yet. As Lark turned toward Winter Sunset, she found Mistress Winter gathering her bondmate’s broken wing in her hands, folding it rib to rib, gently, gently pressing the pinions closed until she stood with her arms full of scarlet membrane. She looked like a dressmaker with a bolt of red silk in her arms. And she was weeping. Her tears splashed down her weathered cheeks and fell on Winter Sunset’s ruined wing.
Lark said, “Oh, Mistress Winter! What can I do?”
Mistress Winter didn’t look at her, but put her forehead on her bondmate’s sweat-soaked shoulder, and sobbed, “Nothing, Larkyn. There’s nothing anyone can do.” She choked something else, something Lark couldn’t hear.
Lark left Diamond standing beside Tup and went to Mistress Winter’s side. She tore strips from her riding skirt to help bind the ruined wing, testing it here and there to see that it would hold. Mistress Winter sobbed silently throughout the whole operation. When they were finished, Lark stepped back, and Mistress Winter, rubbing her face with her long fingers, took one more shuddering breath.
As she lowered her hands, Lark had to bite her lip to keep from exclaiming.
Mistress Winter’s tears had ceased, but her face was swollen and tear-streaked, and her eyes were dark with shock, stark in her tanned face. Her cheek bore an angry red mark left by the Duke’s quirt. She looked as if she had aged twenty years in a day.
“She will never fly again,” she said in a broken voice. Her arms went around Winter Sunset’s neck, and she pressed her cheek against the sweat-stained sorrel coat. “My darling Sunny, my grand girl. She will never fly again.”
Lark struggled for something to say, for something to offer. There was nothing.
She stepped forward, and put her own arms around Mistress Winter. Mistress Winter burst into fresh tears, weeping against Sunny’s neck, and her body shook in Lark’s grasp. Lark simply stood, holding her, supporting them both, until the men from the dock came up the alley, full of questions and offering to help.
Lark left Mistress Winter alone with Sunny, and went to stop the men from coming too close to the winged horses. She hardly recognized her own voice as she gave orders and instructions, and requested blankets and ropes and the largest wagon that could be found.
When it came, she was greatly relieved to see her own brother Nick was driving it. And at the head of the brace of oxen who pulled it was Brye. There was no need to explain anything to them. They stood back as she and Mistress Winter, her face strained but composed now, helped Winter Sunset into the wagon, using planks from the loading dock as a ramp.
Lark offered to drive the wagon, but Sunny was in too much pain, it seemed, to mind the scent of Nick as he climbed up onto the bench seat and took the reins. Brye walked beside the oxen, looking back from time to time to see that Winter Sunset and Mistress Winter were not jostled too much.
Lark was left with Tup and Diamond. She told the filly, “You follow Tup now, lass. We’ll be safe and sound in the Academy stables by this evening.” She turned Tup toward the boulevard that led past the Rotunda and west out of the city. It would be a long walk, but there would be no more flying today.
>
They passed the wagon just as it reached the boulevard, and Lark lifted a hand.
“I’ll have Sunny’s stall ready,” she said.
Mistress Winter, swaying in the wagon bed next to her bondmate, only nodded. Brye said, as Lark and the horses made a wide circle around the oxen and the men who handled them, “Have a care, Lark. The news won’t have spread yet.”
She asked, over her shoulder, “What news, Brye?”
“The Duke is dead. Drowned.”
“He’s dead? He’s really—are you sure that none of the boats—” Lark shook her head, unable to take in
the thought. A shiver of revulsion shook her as she remembered Duke William’s black-clad figure tumbling toward the bay.
“Nay,” Brye said. “He went straight down, and no one could find him. But until everyone knows, the streets may not be safe. Keep a watchful eye.”
“Aye.” She turned forward, toward the center of the city, where the Rotunda’s colorful pennants lifted in the breeze. She guided Tup and Diamond through the lanes toward the boulevard, but she barely saw the streets she passed. She relived, for the first of countless times to come, the struggle in the air above the harbor that had ended so bitterly for Winter Sunset.
As awful as that was, it was better than wondering what lay ahead for the Noble mare and her bondmate.
FORTY-ONE
PHILIPPAdidn’t leave Sunny’s side all that night or the next. Larkyn stayed with her, and Philippa thought there could be no better help than a country girl who didn’t blanch at the blood that poured from the broken veins of the wing membrane, who shrank from no task, no matter how distressing, who never shuddered or winced as she looked at the shattered pinion. Larkyn warmed and sweetened a bucket of water to tempt Sunny to drink. When it seemed the mare could no longer stay on her feet, the girl helped Philippa to coax her to lie down on her good side, to arrange the bandaged wing with gentle hands. They took turns sitting in the straw by Sunny’s head, soothing her, talking to her.
The hours of the night stretched into a cold gray dawn. Philippa, with Sunny’s head in her lap, dozed a little. Nightmares chased themselves through her dreams, Sunny bleeding, falling, dying, William emerging from the bay, dripping, with his quirt in his hand.
She was not exactly sure she was awake when she opened her eyes in the darkest part of the night to see Larkyn with some fetish in her hand, a little doll with a printed skirt and a thatch of improbable hair.
Larkyn twirled the fetish over Sunny’s wing, tracing the tear in the membrane, spinning it over the broken pinion. When she was done, she cast Philippa a furtive glance before she slipped out of the stall.
Philippa placed no faith in small magics, but it seemed to her that Sunny grew stronger from that moment.
Larkyn persuaded Sunny to lip a little water while Philippa replaced her bandages. Larkyn patiently replaced the blankets over the mare’s body when Sunny wriggled them off in her fever. And the girl murmured endearments to Sunny in her Uplands dialect, endearments Philippa found as comforting for herself as they were to the mare. When Sunny’s fever broke, and she struggled to her feet, Larkyn was there, guiding her, protecting the broken wing, bringing the hot mash Herbert had kept simmering on the close stove.
Two days passed. Neither of them had been out of the stables for more than an hour at a time. They stood watching Sunny nibble at the mash. Though her eyelids drooped and her sides were gaunt, she was steady on her feet.
“She will live, Mistress Winter,” Larkyn said hoarsely.
“Yes,” Philippa said. She kept her hand on Sunny’s neck, blessedly cool at last, and watched the mare drink more of Larkyn’s sweetened water. “Yes, she will live.” Her throat closed for a long moment, and she swallowed the pain away. She managed to say, before her voice utterly broke, “But she won’t fly.”
“Nay. I know that.” Larkyn, leaning against the wall of the stall, turned her eyes up to Philippa. There were dark circles beneath them, and her cheeks were hollow with fatigue. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered.
“So terribly sorry for both of you.”
Her small, work-hardened hand found Philippa’s and held it. It was that, the feel of someone else’s skin against her own, that undid Philippa’s hard-won control yet again.
She wept great, wrenching sobs. They hurt, tearing at her chest and her throat. She cried for some time before she realized that Larkyn’s arms were around her, holding her through each spasm. She hid her face in her hands, unwilling to let the girl see her wretched face. Larkyn held her and patted her, and
when her tears ebbed, released her without a word.
Philippa wiped her eyes and blew her nose. She saw that Sunny’s water bucket was full, and the straw on the floor of the stall was clean and dry. Larkyn was gone, leaving her alone with her bondmate.
WHENPhilippa could bear to leave Sunny for a few hours, she went to the Residence for a much-needed bath and change of clothes. It was early, and the girls were at breakfast. A light snow had fallen overnight, and the courtyard and the lane were frosted with white.
Matron fussed over Philippa, adding hot water and some fragrant soap as Philippa soaked in the claw-footed tub. Philippa rested her head against a rolled towel, and listened, with her eyes closed, while Matron chattered.
“It will be Duke Francis now,” she said, pouring more water. “We know he was never meant to rule, never trained for it, but there it is! His elder brother went and got himself killed, and there’s no one else, is there? Lord Francis will be invested tomorrow, at the Tower of the Seasons, but today they say he’s already at the Rotunda, meeting with the Council. The Duchess, poor thing, is moving her things out of the Palace and going home to her family. My cousin works there, and she says Duchess Constance has never looked so happy. Can you imagine that? Well, I don’t know if she’s still the Duchess, but I suppose she is, as there is no other. And now, you know, Master Crisp has been restored as Master Breeder, because Master Jinson is dead.”
Philippa opened her eyes. “Jinson is dead?”
“That he is,” Matron said with a grim glance. “Poor young man. Never wanted that position in the first place, I would guess. Not suited, was he?”
“No,” Philippa said faintly. “But what happened to him?”
“Well,” Matron said. She glanced at the door of the bathroom to be certain it was still shut. “Well, I hear they’re talking about it right now in the Rotunda, but word is that man of the late Duke’s shot poor Jinson! I never liked that man. Never trusted him.”
“Slater! Kalla’s teeth,” Philippa said. She closed her eyes and let her head fall back against the edge of the tub. “Slater,” Philippa said again. “And where has he got to, now that his master’s dead?”
Matron sat down on a stool near the tub, a thick towel folded in her lap. “No one knows,” she said with satisfaction. “He’ll never dare show his face in Osham again; that’s a fact!”
“And so . . .” Philippa rubbed her face with her wet fingers. She could hardly take it all in. “So Eduard Crisp has regained his position.”
“Yes,” Matron said. “He’s in the stables now, I believe, with Mistress Star.”
Philippa sat up, lassitude falling away from her like the drops of water that splashed from her wet face over her shoulders. “Why?” she demanded.
Matron smoothed the towel. “To straighten things out, I should think. To close that silly Fleckham School, and send those boys home where they belong. To see that poor little Amelia and her colt are back where they belong, now that her father has delivered her back to the Academy. Duke Francis wasted no time making peace with the Klee, I can tell you that!” Philippa stood up, dripping, and Matron handed her the towel.
Philippa scrubbed at her hair, then held out her hand for another towel and climbed out of the tub.
“Thank you, Matron.” Her nerves felt stretched and raw, and her hands were unsteady as she dried herself. “Hand me my clothes, will you?”
&n
bsp; SHEmet Suzanne and Eduard in the middle of the courtyard. Suzanne’s face told her everything, but she didn’t speak until they were in her office with the door closed. A fire crackled with incongruous cheerfulness in the grate. Philippa stood just inside the door, braced and wary.
Eduard turned to face her, his lined face grim. “You’ll have to put her down, Philippa,” Eduard said.
There was compassion, even pity, in his voice. “There’s nothing else to be done.”
“What do you mean?” she snapped. “She’s through the worst already.”
“You mean, because she’s alive? She’ll never fly again.”
“I’m not a fool, Eduard,” Philippa said. “I know she can’t fly. But she’ll walk, and run. She’ll live.”
“She’ll be miserable. She’ll be trying to fly every chance she gets.”
“I’ll watch out for her.”
“Where?” Eduard asked. His voice was gentler than usual. “You can’t keep her here, where other horses are flying every day. She’ll go crazy, or she’ll drive them crazy. Or both.”
“She will not! I’ll be with her, and I’ll see to it that . . . Kalla’s heels, Eduard,” Philippa exclaimed. “After her long service, you would just put her down? Give up on her?”
Suzanne had gone behind her desk, but now she came across the room toward Philippa, one hand out.
“Philippa,” she began. “It would be the kindest—”
“Kindest for whom?” Philippa grated. “For you? For Eduard? Not for Sunny, surely, and not for me, either!”
Eduard folded his arms across his breast, and his face closed. “She’s too old to breed, and she can’t fly.
She’s useless. Where would you keep her? There’s never enough room here at the Academy, and I’m not going to take the chance—”
“ You’re not going to take the chance? You? ” Philippa’s voice rose, and Suzanne put up a hand, but she ignored it. “Since when did you ever take the chance? Did you fly with her, that very first time, at the risk of your neck? Did you fight the battle of the South Tower? Did you face a madman over the bay? Have you monitored dozens of young horses, taught young flyers for years—” Her voice broke, and she turned to face the fire, gritting her teeth against a fresh wave of sorrow.
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