What it was all about.” Her voice grew harsher as she tried to keep it from breaking. She turned her head, hoping he wouldn’t see her weakness.
He held her hand a little tighter. She could feel the heat of his body, like a bridge connecting the two of them through the cold air. He was so—so masculine. She wasn’t accustomed to this.
She had the sudden alarming thought that anyone in the kitchen could see them, standing here under the rue-tree like a pair of—of what? Not lovers. That wasn’t possible.
She took her hand back, and rubbed her forehead with the back of it. “Sorry,” she said again. “I just don’t know what to do with the rest of my life. I always thought I would be at the Academy of the Air until—until the end.”
He cleared his throat. “Well. Philippa.”
She looked up at him, at his dark blue eyes so like his sister’s, at his strong, steady features. “What?”
He hesitated, and his eyes shifted briefly, then came back to hers. “You can stay here,” he said in his bass rumble. “With us. With—” He cleared his throat again. “With me.”
For a moment she couldn’t speak at all. This was not at all what she had expected, no matter how treacherous the feelings in her heart. She had never seriously considered such a thing, nor had she thought
he would. At last, taking a deep breath, she blurted ungracefully, “But you know that’s not possible!”
His mouth curved. “Why not?”
She shook her head, and this time it was she who put out her hand, who took his. “What would I do here, at Deeping Farm?” she asked. “I’m no farmer, and I’m certainly no cook.”
“No need to do anything,” he said. “Just be.”
“Just be,” she repeated. She squeezed his hand with her fingers, and said, “I can’t do that, Brye. It’s kind of you to offer . . .”
He turned his hand over to grip hers again. They stood very still for long moments, looking at each other.
Philippa said, after a time, “I’m not sure what you’re asking me, Brye.”
He released her hand with a little, self-deprecating laugh. “I think you are.”
She gave a small sigh, and he laughed again. “Been a solitary man all my life, Philippa. It suited me. But . .
. I like seeing your face at my table.” He looked away, out across the snow-covered fields of Deeping Farm. “I like your voice in my ear.”
“And my horse in your barn?” she said, as lightly as she could.
“I know you can’t be separated.”
There was another pause, and Philippa heard the sounds of breakfast beginning in the kitchen behind them. She said, “You tempt me.”
Something kindled in his eyes, and she bit her lip. She hadn’t meant to encourage him. She searched for a way to explain. “You tempt me, yes, Brye. If I were a different sort of woman . . .” She shook her head.
“I need work. I need a purpose. I’m still a horsemistress, though my bondmate . . .” She couldn’t bring herself to speak it aloud, afraid she would break down again. She dropped her eyes to her boots. “My first allegiance,” she said softly, “is—and must always be—to Sunny. I can’t—I don’t see how I could—”
“Philippa,” he said. He spoke gravely, but the hint of a smile was in his voice. “You will have noticed that I am no youth burning with heat.” The elegance of his phrase both surprised and moved her.
“Nor am I,” she said. “Though I like seeing your face, too, Brye Hamley, and hearing your voice.” She laughed a little. “Not that you speak a great deal.”
His own chuckle was a bass rumble. “Nay. Nothing to say.”
“I can’t agree with that. When you do speak, it’s always worth hearing.”
“Well,” he said then, and reached for the latch of the door. She sensed, rather than heard, his disappointment. “Well, Philippa. I hope you’ll stay as long as you like.”
She looked up into his face once again. “You are so kind. I’m grateful. For my sake, and for Sunny’s.”
He pulled the latch and held the door for her to go in. A wave of warm air swept out, redolent with the smell of fresh coffee, hot bread, and rashers of bacon frying on the close stove. Philippa took her seat at the table and accepted a cup of coffee. She watched the faces around her, the little boy, the younger women, silent Edmar, laughing Nick . . . and Brye.
It was good to be at this table, to eat this homely food, to feel safe, to be in amenable company. It was good to be in Brye Hamley’s company, and it made her heart beat faster to know that he felt the same.
But it was not enough. It would never be enough.
FORTY-THREE
LARKhad always thought the horse goddess must intervene with the weather on Ribbon Day so that her precious creatures would look their best against the pale blue of Oc’s early-autumn sky. Accordingly, she was not surprised when she opened her eyes on this, her final Ribbon Day, to find the sky untroubled by clouds, the treetops barely moving in a light breeze. She shivered with anticipation.
The Academy had been uneasy during the months since the Duke’s death. Mistress Rambler had come for her things, white-faced and wretched as she moved between the Residence and the Hall. Mistress Star and Mistress Moon had a bitter argument in the stairwell of the Hall while the girls cowered in the
library, listening. Everyone tried to pretend afterward that the disagreement was at an end, but no one really believed it.
The students had their own problems, especially the third-levels. Beatrice, Lillian, and Beryl remained sullen and resentful. Isobel complained to Hester that neither camp accepted her efforts to make peace.
Amelia, returned in quiet triumph to the Academy by Baron Rys, was more reserved than ever. Lark worried that her experiences had driven her further inside herself, but she thrilled at the sight of Amelia and Mahogany flying at last, demonstrating the same calm competency they showed in everything they undertook.
But Lark had little time to address any of this through the months of that dark winter. She had spent every free moment she had with the orphaned Diamond.
The silver filly, after losing her rider, had trotted behind Tup like a lost puppy as they wound through the streets of Osham. News of the Duke’s death had spread swiftly through the White City. The impressed militiamen threw down their muskets and swords to return to their homes. The regular militia stood about in confusion, uncertain of what to do. Lark had passed through the city unimpeded, reaching the Academy late in the evening, with Tup beside her right shoulder and Diamond, head down and ears drooping, close to Tup’s right flank.
It had been a sad homecoming. Lark, having no one to advise her, put Diamond in the stall next to Tup’s.
The filly leaned so hard against the dividing wall, trying to be close to him, that Lark was afraid she would break it down. Lark talked to her, and stroked her, but the filly stamped and fidgeted, flexing her wings, snuffling over the wall at Tup’s neck. Lark knew she couldn’t put a filly and an uncut stallion in the same stall, but she was afraid to leave Diamond untended. In the end, it was Tup who solved her problem, sidling as close to the wall as he could get, nosing Diamond and whickering gently to her. Diamond settled down then, and when Lark left them at last, they were standing nose to tail, with the wall between them.
“Thank you, my Tup,” Lark said wearily, as she closed the gate. He flicked an ear at her in acknowledgment as Diamond’s head nodded wearily near his hindquarters.
The dapple gray showed no signs of madness, which could be expected in a winged horse after the loss of its bondmate. But she was decidedly fractious. No one but Lark could get close to her. Anyone else found the filly’s teeth bared, her hooves flashing.
Twice, Master Crisp brought girls to the stables, hoping one of them might be able to bond with Diamond. The results had been disastrous, with girls fleeing and Diamond trembling in fury and confusion.
The Master Breeder had not yet threatened to put her down, but as the months passed and she gre
w no more cooperative, Lark began to fear that pronouncement.
The only days Diamond was calm were the days she flew with Tup, wearing a flying saddle and sand weights. Cautiously at first, then adding distance and altitude and complexity, Lark and Tup monitored Diamond so she could stretch her wings, practice her launches and returns, expend her nervous energy in the air.
Lark, with two horses to care for, was spending twice as much time as any other girl in training, grooming, feeding, and mucking out. She often felt she was doing justice to neither horse. And she fretted over what would become of Diamond when she and Tup left the Academy for their first posting.
The sleeping porch was coming awake now. Nervous whispers carried between the cots as the girls began to push back their blankets and roll out of bed. Lark hurried to wash her face and dress. She was afraid that Diamond, with all the excitement brewing around her, would be at her worst today, lashing out at anyone who passed her stall. She planned to work the filly on the longue line to settle her down. If Diamond created an uproar, on this morning in particular, Lark worried Master Crisp would banish her to the Palace stables or someplace worse, where what was left of the filly’s spirit would wither. She was a winged horse without a flyer, a winged horse whose bonding had failed. There was no precedent, and no one knew what to do about it.
Lark was the first into the stables that morning. She greeted Tup, and brought him his oats. Diamond hung her head over the wall, snuffling at Lark’s pockets. “You’re next,” Lark said to her. Diamond nipped at her hand and tossed her head impatiently. Lark said, “Please, Diamond. You have to be calm
today!” But the filly stamped and began to turn in her stall, around and around, making a trough in the straw.
Lark sighed. “Tup, I have to do something about Diamond. I’ll be back.”
Tup lifted his nose from the oat bin to look at her, his ears twitching. He understood, she thought. He always understood.
She planted a kiss directly on his shining black nose, then slipped out of his stall and into Diamond’s. As she led the filly toward the dry paddock, Amelia came in, on her way to Mahogany’s stall. She raised one eyebrow. “Do you have time for that, Black?”
“I have to make time,” Lark said. “I’m afraid she’ll raise a ruckus the whole day otherwise, and Mistress Star will be furious if she upsets the other horses. Like yours!”
“She won’t upset Mahogany. Very little does. But if I could help you, I would.”
“Oh, it’s all right,” Lark said, though in truth, she wished someone else could handle this, just for today.
“In any case, you have your Airs to think of!”
Amelia’s reserve softened at that. “We’re ready,” she said. She turned down the aisle to where Mahogany was waiting for her, his glossy neck stretched over the half-gate of his stall.
“I know you are,” Lark said.
“And you are, too,” Amelia said, over her shoulder.
“Oh, aye,” Lark said with a little laugh. “Tup and I have already used Arrows, and in worse conditions than these! Today’s trial should be no trouble at all.”
Afestive air settled over the Academy as the rows of chairs in the courtyard filled with ladies in jeweled caps and ropes of pearls, their silken tabards shining in the sun. The Lords of the Council, in dark jackets and trousers, stood beside their ladies’ chairs as the winged horses paraded out of the stables. Every mount gleamed with brushing, and the membranes of their wings had been rubbed until they glowed.
Manes and tails flowed with silver and black ribbons, and hooves were oiled and buffed. The girls were spotlessly dressed, boots cleaned, peaked caps tilted at jaunty angles above their riding knots. Every member of the Council was in the courtyard. Oc had nearly split apart over these girls and these horses, and no Council Lord wanted to miss the event.
The new Duke, flanked on either side by secretaries, stood on the steps of the Hall. His pale hair gleamed like ice in the morning light as he nodded greetings to those who came to curtsy or bow to him.
Lark reined Tup toward the flight paddock behind the rest of the third-levels. Hester led them through the gate, and everyone took off their wingclips. Their horses stamped and shook their wings. Tup danced sideways, and Lark let him be. It was best if he worked off his excess energy before the demands of the close drills ahead. Beatrice was just in front of her, and she looked back, frowning, as Tup’s bridle jangled, and her own Dark Lad pranced nervously.
Lark said, “Don’t worry. They’re just excited. We’re going to be fine.”
Beatrice’s brow smoothed. For the first time in months, she smiled at Lark. “I know,” she said, stroking Lad’s neck. “I’m so glad this day is here at last.”
“Aye.” Lark looked forward, at the rest of her classmates, and saw that they were all smiling, even the often-anxious Anabel. They fell into formation behind Hester and Golden Morning, every eye bright, every back straight. A rush of hope brought a flush to Lark’s cheeks. Perhaps they could be a flight again after all.
She glanced back at the steps of the Hall and saw that Philippa Winter, slender and erect, and still wearing the black riding habit, had come to stand beside Duke Francis. Behind her was a tall, broad-shouldered figure, standing beside the Duke of Oc as if it was perfectly natural for him to be there.
It was Brye, taking time from harvest to watch Lark win her silver wings.
“They’re here, my Tup,” Lark whispered. She touched his neck with her fingers, and lifted the reins for the canter down the flight paddock. “They’re both here!”
PHILIPPAwatched from the steps of the Hall as the girls and horses launched, then began their Airs.
The miseries of the past year seemed to fall away in the joyous exhibition of skill. Their Half Reverses
and Grand Reverses were as polished as anyone could wish, and their Points were precise. They flew a single Grace only, but they had chosen the most intricate of all, the horses spinning in opposite circles, a shimmering kaleidoscope pattern of bay and palomino and sorrel and black. Philippa stole a glance at Suzanne, and saw that although her hands clenched tightly together, pride glowed in her eyes.
She had every right to be proud. As the flyers assembled for Arrows, the final proof of their abilities, they rose high over the Academy almost as one. Every horse’s wings were steady and strong, every ear pricked forward, all hooves tightly tucked. A slight, cooling breeze fluttered the ribbons in their manes and tales, and belled the girls’ full sleeves. Hester lifted her quirt, pointed it, dropped it.
Philippa’s own fingers tightened their clasp on her belt. She, like every other horsemistress, knew how difficult Arrows could be. But surely, on this crystal-clear autumn day, it had to be easier than it had been over the bay, with carronades firing and sea spray splashing. The flyers plunged toward the courtyard with nothing to distract them. Seraph’s drop was the most dramatic, fast and steep, the angle of his narrow wings the sharpest of all. When they reached the height of the treetops, the flight leveled, skimming the roof of the stables, darting past the dry paddock, then ascending like a flock of birds swirling into the sky.
On a wave of applause from the courtyard, Hester began the return pattern, banking, descending, soaring down toward the paddock. They came to ground in order, the girls grinning, the horses’ tails arching with pride.
Seraph, the last to land, made one, small dip before he came over the hedgerow, tilting his wings this way and that, no doubt just to show that he could.
Philippa covered her mouth with her hand to hide her smile.
LARKand her classmates stabled their horses and went to stand before Duke Francis and Headmistress Star, whose smile was so wide Lark thought it must hurt her cheeks. One by one, they stepped forward.
They nodded to the Duke, and he bowed elegantly to each of them before he pinned the shining silver wings to their collars.
When it was Lark’s turn, she stood very straight and still. She had known that she and Tup were
ready, but at this moment, it hardly seemed possible they had reached their goal at last. So many things had stood in their way! But Char’s sacrifice, her brothers’ devotion, Mistress Winter’s guidance, Hester’s help, and Rosellen’s, then Amelia . . . and always, Tup.
He was, indeed, one of Kalla’s miracles. And this was a moment of pure magic.
Behind the Duke, Brye smiled. Mistress Winter stood at his shoulder, her weathered features impassive, but she nodded her approval.
Duke Francis bent his head as he pinned the wings to her tabard. “Welcome to the service of the Duchy,” he said. “You are now a horsemistress of Oc.”
The words thundered in Lark’s ears. Her voice suddenly choked in her throat. She looked helplessly at Mistress Winter, shaking her head, unable to speak her gratitude.
Duke Francis touched her hand. “It’s all right,” he said quietly. “It’s a great moment.”
Lark nodded, again and again, feeling the color surge and fade in her cheeks. She managed to stammer,
“Thank you, Your Grace. Thank you!”
He gave her a boyish grin, and she suddenly remembered that he was only ten years older than she. “It is I who thank you, Horsemistress Black,” he said. “And I look forward to many years of your service to the Duchy.”
When Lark turned away, eyes glittering with happy tears, she found her brother at her shoulder, his strong hand under her arm. He led her away from the crowd, and the moment they were out of sight, he lifted her off her feet in a great hug. By the time he put her down, she was laughing. And Mistress Winter, following, indulged in one of her rare smiles.
PHILIPPAslipped out the side door of the dining hall, leaving the bright-eyed young flyers to their celebration. She had no part of it anymore. She missed Sunny, waiting for her in the Uplands, but she also missed the Academy with a pain that was physical, a pang beneath her breastbone she could not
breathe away.
She turned toward the stables, seeking comfort in the company of winged horses. Herbert, working in the tack room, looked up as she passed the door. His glance was full of pity, and that stiffened her spine.
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