by Toby Bishop
Lark’s own eyes narrowed. The scent around the man intensified—was it some sort of perfume? She had no experience with such things. “Excuse me, sir,” she said swiftly. “I’ve work to do.”
She set off at a quick pace, angling to her left to pass him by.
He put out his hand, and laid the quirt against her chest.
Lark froze where she was. The leather was thin, but it was hard and strong, a line of heat burning against her breasts.
Magicked. She couldn’t move.
Tup had sidled to her left, not leaving her, but trying to give the man a wide berth. Now he whirled, forefeet planted, tail switching. Molly, trotting behind him, bumped into his hindquarters and fell back, shaking her scanty beard. Tup’s ears went flat against his head, and his upper lip lifted to show his small, white teeth.
The man’s eyes darkened till they were almost black. The cloying scent of him grew stronger as he leaned toward her. “Do you think you can thwart me?” he hissed. “Me?”
Lark whispered, through dry lips, “Who are you?”
He let the quirt slide a little lower, brushing the tips of her breasts, settling beneath them. She gasped a little, unable to stop herself, and he laughed.
His voice was too high, just as his perfume was too sweet. He said, lightly, “I am your lord, Larkyn Hamley. Your colt is my property. I can take away this farm—this house—and you, if I wish.” He drew the quirt across her ribs, letting it linger on her body at the last moment, then lifting it.
She stumbled forward, as if she had broken through a fence. She turned on the man, fury burning in her cheeks. “Duke Frederick is my lord, sir,” she exclaimed. “And I know you’re not him, because he’s an old man! And I’ll let no one take Tup from me!”
She ran then, straight for the coldcellar. Tup followed at a stiff-legged canter, Molly bleating behind him. The chestnut stamped and nickered nervously. Molly skidded to a halt when she saw the big horse, but Lark pressed on, hurrying down the steps, throwing back the slanted door. Tup was close on her heels, and the two of them crowded in beside the milk cans. With an effort, Lark pulled the door closed, shutting them in the cool darkness. She threw the bar, and then stood staring at the wood, listening hard. Her chest still tingled where the magicked quirt had touched her.
She heard the stranger’s soft boots on the three stairs. He must have leaned very close to the door, insinuating his light voice through the joins. “Larkyn Hamley,” he said. “Remember what I said. You can lose everything, you and your family. It is no empty threat.”
Lark didn’t answer. She let Tup’s clean smell wash the cloying perfume from her nostrils, and she didn’t move again until the chestnut’s hoofbeats faded from the lane, until Molly bleated at the top of the stairs. Cautiously, Lark lifted the bar and pushed up the door.
He was gone. The lane was empty, as far as she could see.
She went up the stairs, Tup behind her, and walked slowly around the corner to the kitchen door. The sun shone brightly as ever, but Lark shivered. Unconsciously, as she went into the kitchen, tied on her apron, rubbed the joint with garlic and pepper, she rubbed her hand across her chest, over and over, feeling the touch of the man’s quirt as if it had been a brand.
EIGHT
LARK never told her brothers about the stranger’s visit. More than once, she found herself about to tell Brye, to ask Nick for advice, to blurt it all out at dinner, but fear stopped the words in her mouth. She imagined Brye in a fury, rousing the prefect, the magistrate, hying himself to the White City to complain to the Duke’s men about the treatment of his sister, and she shivered. She told herself she was too busy to dwell on it, with so much to think about, so many arrangements to make, plans to be laid. And in truth, nothing had happened, nothing real, anyway. The man had toyed with her, teased her, but he hadn’t hurt her. Yet she remembered that day with frightening clarity, especially when she was alone on the farm, raking out last year’s planting beds, churning butter in the coldcellar, grazing the goats and the milk cows in the north pasture. She remembered Philippa Winter’s aristocratic accents as she informed the Hamleys that they could lose Deeping Farm. And the strange man, with his pale hair and odd voice, his smooth skin . . . he seemed the sort of man that had such power.
Summer trod hard on the heels of spring, bringing out the freckles on Lark’s nose and causing the goats to shed their winter coats in great shaggy clumps. The bloodbeets sprouted fans of deep green in the south pasture, and the broomstraw began to show its feathery tops.
The months of preparation were almost gone. Tup’s head now reached Lark’s own, and he ate hay and grass as well as mash. Though Molly’s milk had dried as the colt’s appetites changed, the little she-goat still trotted faithfully by his side, and slept in his stall at night. The two of them followed Lark wherever she went, and stood beneath the rue-tree when she was in the kitchen, waiting for her to emerge.
“Yon goat will pine away when you’re off to the Academy,” Nick said one evening. The air was warm as bath water, and rich with the scents of growing things. The family had gathered for an outside supper on the weathered plank table built by some long-ago Hamley. On fine evenings, they often sat with their backs to the house, watching the yellow sunsets of summer or the red ones of autumn blaze beyond the roof line of the barn. The colt and the little goat were nibbling grass beside the garden fence.
Lark had spread a tattered cloth, and was arranging platters of early tomatoes and lettuce, a wheel of cheese, a fresh loaf, and a generous dish of her own sweet butter. She looked up at Nick, her mouth open in surprise. “Why—but, Nick. Surely Molly will come with us!”
Brye settled himself on the bench, stretching out his legs before him with a weary sigh. “Lark. Those fine stables are for horses. Not little Uplands she-goats.”
Lark turned to her eldest brother. “But Tup needs her! And she’s so attached to him!”
“Partings are hard. Sit you down now, and eat.”
Lark sat facing her brothers, her back to the glories of the western sky. “Brye . . . at the Academy . . .” She swallowed. “I won’t know anyone.”
He said, “Mistress Winter.”
“Well, yes, Mistress Winter. But not . . . I mean, none of the girls. Or the headmistress. I’ll have only Tup and Molly for company.”
Nick glanced up from slicing bread. “You’ll meet the other students,” he said. “And you and your colt will be busy, learning this and that! No time to be lonely.”
“Learned a bit already.” It was Edmar, who rarely spoke at dinner.
Lark smiled at him, but she shook her head. “Not much. The horsemistress at Dickering Park is . . . preoccupied, I suppose. She gives me books. Starts to lecture me, and then loses interest. I think she doesn’t like me.”
“Stuck-up cow,” Nick said.
Lark sighed, and accepted a slice of bread. “Bit of a nob, yes. I’m afraid she is. But I expect they’ll all be that way. Especially with a girl from the Uplands.”
“Just remember who you are,” Brye rumbled. “A Hamley of Deeping Farm. Nothing to be ashamed of.”
“No,” Lark said. “No.” But she remembered the stranger’s smooth face, and the cold, sickening feel of his little whip touching her body.
PHILIPPA had been a little late for dinner, and she had to hurry to finish her soup before the delicate china bowl was whisked away from her. She sat at Margareth’s right, pleased to find that the Headmistress looked stronger tonight.
When the soup bowls had disappeared, Margareth turned to her. “Tell me, Philippa, how your flight was today. Irina had concerns about Prince.”
“The flight went well, for the most part,” she said. “We worked at Graces all morning.”
“And Geraldine? Prince?”
Philippa scowled, wishing Irina had kept her thoughts to herself. A server with a platter of fish slipped between them, giving her a moment to frame her answer. When she had gone, Philippa said, with care, “I’ve spoken to Herber
t, and to Rosellen. It’s possible one of the fillies is in season, and they don’t realize it. Prince is jittery, it’s true. And Geraldine . . .” She picked up her fish fork, a slender filigreed piece of silver, and touched it to the delicate white fillet on her plate. “Geraldine must learn to settle him. I’ll try to give her some extra time.”
“Good.” Margareth nodded, and turned to the woman on her left.
Philippa looked up and down the high table where the instructors sat. Below them, their students sat at long, narrow tables arranged in parallel rows. The hall sparkled with glass and silver, and bustled with servers moving in and out with platters and pitchers. The sounds of treble voices rang against the high ceiling, punctuated now and then by a girl’s laughter. At the end of one of the tables, far from the high table, she saw Geraldine Prince, sitting in silence, an untouched plate before her. Unease trembled in Philippa’s belly, and she set down her fork.
“Philippa. Eat,” Margareth murmured to her. Philippa gave her a startled glance. “They’ll take away the course, and you won’t even have tasted it. You’re too thin.”
Philippa grimaced. “I know.” She picked up the fish fork again, and took a bite of the delicately seasoned dish. When she had swallowed, she said, “I was just—distracted.”
“Worry about it in the morning, Philippa. Nothing you can do tonight.”
Again, Philippa agreed. “I know.” She dropped her eyes to her plate, and set herself to finishing the fillet. But when the server came for her plate, her eyes drifted back to Geraldine.
The girl sitting next to Geraldine was younger. Hester, Philippa thought her name was, Hester Morning, a first-year girl, tall and bony, with a quite magnificent Foundation yearling. Hester leaned toward Geraldine, spoke to her. Geraldine shook her head, and the younger girl spoke again, her features drawn sympathetically.
Perhaps Geraldine was ill. Philippa thought for a moment of going to ask, but decided it was not a good time. It would be embarrassing for the girl and for everyone in her flight to press the point here in the Hall. She would talk to her in the morning.
After the meat course, Philippa excused herself to Margareth. “I’ll go check with Herbert that a stall is ready for the Uplands colt,” she said. “Have you spoken with Eduard?”
Margareth nodded. “Eduard tried to speak with Duke Frederick, too, Philippa. Like you, he was not allowed to be alone with him.”
Philippa had half-risen from her chair, but she sank back, frowning. “William?”
“Of course.”
“But why, Margareth?” She glanced around to be certain no one was listening to their conversation. “It’s as if he’s deliberately . . .”
“Everything Lord William does is deliberate.”
Philippa rubbed her neck. It felt as if someone were pinching it between iron fingers. “Why cannot people leave well enough alone?” she muttered.
“Power,” Margareth said. “Some people yearn for it like a drinker yearns for his ale.”
“As if Klee doesn’t give us enough problems, he has to stir up—”
“Shhh,” Margareth hissed. “Don’t say it.”
Philippa met Margareth’s gaze, and the thought passed between them, unspoken. Spies. William was a master of spying. It was an open secret in Oc that Lord William had eyes everywhere. With a sigh, Philippa stood again. “Good night, Margareth. I’m off to the stables, then early to bed.”
“Good,” Margareth said. “And tell Rosellen to find a dog for the colt. He’ll be lonely.”
PHILIPPA found Rosellen at work in the tack room, a leather punch in her hand, a cinch across her knees. The stable-girl looked up at her entrance. The thong she had been holding between her gappy teeth fell to the dusty floor. “Good evening to you, Mistress Winter,” she said cheerily. “I thought all of you were at your dinner.”
“Why aren’t you, Rosellen?”
“Oh, had mine an hour ago, in the kitchen. Good fish, that was.” Rosellen put aside the cinch, and stood up, brushing crumbs of leather from her tabard. “Are you needing something?”
Philippa bent to pick up the dropped thong and handed it to Rosellen. “I hope Herbert told you we have a new colt coming,” she said.
“He did,” Rosellen said. She put the leather punch into its place above the work bench, keeping her gaze averted. “Odd time of year for it, isn’t it,” she said mildly.
“Indeed,” Philippa said dryly. Rosellen knew perfectly well the situation was more than odd. A winter foal and his bondmate, arriving at the height of summer, would rouse everyone’s interest. “Did you find a stall?”
“I’ll show you,” Rosellen said. She gave the tack room a quick glance, apparently finding everything in order, and then blew out her lamp, pinching the wick to be certain, and then muttering a charm over it for good measure. Philippa forbore to scold the girl. Fire in the stables was always a danger, and though she never resorted to smallmagics to prevent it, she had no objection to Rosellen taking extra care.
She followed the stable-girl’s sturdy form through the wide door and into the stables proper. Her boots crunched on clean sawdust, and her nostrils tingled with the ineffable pungency of horseflesh. The winged horses put their heads over the stall doors as she passed, ears flicking forward. Three oc-hounds came to trot beside the women, sniffing at their tabards for treats, waving their plumy tails. Two of them dropped back when it was clear no food was coming, but Bramble stayed at Philippa’s side. Philippa rested a hand on the oc-hound’s fine head as they walked, and her tension drained from her, leaving her fatigued, but at peace for the moment. Winter Sunset, from her wide corner stall, whickered to her.
Philippa said, “I’ll see you in a moment, Sunny. Just wait.”
Rosellen stopped beside an empty stall in a quiet corner. It was already spread with clean straw, with a water bucket and feedbin waiting.
“Good,” Philippa said. “Golden Morning is nearby. She’s a quiet one, isn’t she?”
“She is.” Rosellen nodded at the palomino filly in the next stall. “And on the other side, Petra Sweet’s gelding. Should be good company for the little one, as he’s so young and all.” She looked up from beneath an untidy fringe of hair, all freckled innocence.
Philippa knew she was burning with curiosity, and she would not be the only one. The other stable-girls, Herbert, all the instructors and students, would be wondering about the colt, and about Larkyn Hamley. Philippa said grimly, “I’ll tell you what I can, Rosellen. What little I know. No one’s happy about it.”
Rosellen propped an elbow on the wall of the empty stall, showing her gappy teeth in a grin. “Not even the girl?”
Philippa gave a mirthless chuckle. “Well, yes. You’re right, of course. She’s thrilled. I only wish she weren’t so . . .” She broke off, not knowing how to explain Lark to Rosellen.
The stable-girl waited, lips parted, to hear what was wrong with the new girl.
Philippa gave a shake of her head. “I shouldn’t say that,” she amended. “She’s a plucky little thing, I’ll give her that. A farm girl, used to hard work. Independent.”
“So what’s wrong with her?”
Philippa sighed. “Look, Rosellen. You know the Master Breeder chooses our girls.”
A shadow crossed Rosellen’s round face, but she only nodded.
“A wingless mare wandered onto the farm where this girl grew up. The girl and her brothers took her in, though they had never had a horse on their farm, or even in their district. They didn’t know she was with foal, and when they discovered it, they just thought of it as good fortune. And then this little mare threw a winged colt. Surprise to everyone.”
Rosellen frowned. “Hasn’t happened in an awful long time.”
“Two centuries, according to Margareth.”
“Didn’t they know, these farmers, that they should let the Duke’s people know?”
“They told their prefect, and he sent a letter to the Academy.”
Rosellen barked a l
augh. “A letter! What a gammon!”
Philippa pursed her lips. “Precisely my thought, Rosellen. Precisely.”
“So this girl . . . by the time you got there . . .”
Philippa eyed the plain girl with appreciation. Rosellen never lacked for wit. She could wish, indeed, that some of her students were half as quick. “You have it,” she said quietly. “They were already bonded. The girl was sleeping in the foal’s stall. Hadn’t bathed in a week.”
“What does His Grace have to say about all this?”
Philippa looked away from Rosellen’s sharp gaze. With care, she said, “Duke Frederick is not very well at the moment.”
“And Master Crisp?”
“He will have a look at the colt, see if he can deduce what bloodline he belongs to.”
“If any.”
Philippa brought her eyes back to Rosellen’s, nodding slowly. “Neither Margareth nor Eduard seems to credit the random birth of a winged foal, not in these latter days.”
“But from the Uplands . . .” Rosellen grinned again, and said in a stage whisper, “Could be descended from the Old Ones.”
Philippa snorted. “I hope you’re not spreading that nonsense to our girls, Rosellen.”
Rosellen shook her head. “Not me. But where I come from, it’s common.”
“And where is that?”
Rosellen gestured with her head toward the north. “Marin,” she said shortly. “A fishing village on the coast. I could see glaciers from my bedroom window.”
Philippa’s eyebrows rose. “So far north! And how did you come to be here?”
“Saw a flyer when I was twelve. A Foundation horse, I’m sure, patrolling the coastline. We didn’t know what was required to become a horsemistress, and my mother and I thought, if I came to the White City . . .” She colored, and broke off. “Silly of us. Ignorant.”
Philippa stared at her, wondering at how much she didn’t know about the people who served the Duke. “But you didn’t go back.”
Rosellen took a deep breath, lifted her head, and smiled again. “I found work in the Duke’s stables, mucking out, feeding, leading the winged horses about. And then here. I don’t get to ride them, but I get to be with them. And they smell better than fish!” She laughed again, a hearty laugh that rang through the stables.