Airs Beneath the Moon

by Toby Bishop

  Though he didn’t move, she sensed the stiffening in his lean body. The gelid silence was broken only by the ticking of the great clock in the foyer.

  “My dear Philippa,” William finally said, lifting his arm from the mantel, tugging his vest down with both hands. “You presume upon old acquaintance, and I understand that, so I will try not to take offense at your tone.”

  “I’m too tired for games, William,” she snapped. “Save us both some time. I know you went to Mossyrock, and I know you bought the saddle. What do you know about it? Who had it, and how did they get it?”

  His voice went very soft. “Do you not think,” he said, “that if I thought you needed to know, I would have told you?”

  “Why did you go to the Uplands?”

  His lips curled slightly. “Every district of Oc is important to us,” he said.

  Philippa snorted, and yanked her gloves out of her belt so she could pleat them with her fingers. She paced, left and then right, pulling at the gloves. “I’m no longer the naive girl you laughed out of this house twenty years ago, William,” she said. “You’re up to something, and knowing you, it’s something nasty.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Careful, Philippa.”

  “Careful be damned,” she said evenly. “Why should you travel all the way to an Uplands village you probably never heard of before this?”

  He left the fireplace, and crossed the room to stand very close to her. He leaned forward, so that she could feel his breath on her face. Odd, that when she was young, she had wanted just such proximity. Now it turned her stomach.

  “Philippa,” William said softly. “Do not cross me. It’s not wise.”

  She took a step back, and glared at him. “You cannot intimidate me as you do so many others, William. You have no leverage.”

  “Oh, but I do,” he said. He smiled, and folded his arms across his chest. “The girl who came to the Academy with the little black—what’s her name? Larkyn, I believe. Ah, yes, Larkyn Hamley. Whose brothers own a fine farm in the Uplands . . . a family farm. A shame to lose it after so many years.”

  “You wouldn’t dare.” Philippa put her hands on her hips. “Frederick would not allow it.”

  “My lord father is too ill to interfere.”

  “The Council, then. They will protect the family of a flyer.”

  “The brat’s unworthy of riding a winged horse,” he snapped back at her.

  “I don’t agree, but it doesn’t matter. She is bonded.”

  William sneered at her. “She has a peasant’s accent and a laborer’s manner.”

  “And a way with horses you’ll never understand!”

  William’s color rose in his pale skin so that even in the candlelight she could see the patches of scarlet on his cheekbones. “You know nothing about it, Philippa!” he said, his voice rising to shrillness.

  “Why, William,” Philippa said softly, feeling the beginnings of a smile on her lips. “You’re jealous. Jealous of a mere girl.”

  “I warn you, Philippa!”

  “Oh, nonsense. You can’t touch me, and you know it! Because I fly a winged horse, and you can’t. That’s it, isn’t it? That’s always been the issue!”

  He drew himself up, and his eyes glittered like black diamonds. “Philippa, you overstep yourself. I will not forget this, upon my succession. I will naturally be making changes, and that will include the Academy.”

  “Why did you buy the saddle, William?”

  He glared at her. She stared back at him, and they stood in a frozen tableau for a long moment. At last, he shifted his gaze to the ceiling, and said with feigned weariness, “You would be well advised, Horsemistress, to stay out of our affairs.”

  “The genealogy of a winged horse is an Academy affair,” she said tightly. “As is everything to do with the winged horses.”

  William’s eyebrows drew together, then, deliberately, apart. “Come, now,” he said. He made a limp gesture with one hand.

  “We are simply taking an interest in our people. Even those of the Uplands.”

  “You won’t tell me.”

  William had moved to the door, and opened it. He held it ajar, and said in an icy tone, “Thank you so much for coming, Mistress Winter. I will convey your greetings to my lady wife.”

  Philippa saw, through the open door, that the steward stood in the foyer, and with him the hunched figure of Slater, William’s man, dressed as she had always seen him in a caped greatcoat. As she passed through the door, and accepted her riding coat and cap, Slater bowed low, peering up at her from beneath ragged eyebrows. She turned her back on him, and went out into the night.

  “FOLLOW her,” William said to Slater, when the doors had shut behind Philippa and the steward had gone below stairs.

  Slater grinned, showing his long yellow teeth. “Can’t fly, me lord,” he said.

  “Don’t be a fool,” William said. “Just see that she leaves directly. Stop her if she begins snooping.”

  “She’ll never find it,” Slater said with confidence. “Hid it right there in the tack room, amongst all the others. No one’ll know the difference.”

  “Philippa will have noticed the new stables. She’s no beauty, but she’s no fool, either. I don’t want her wandering around.”

  “Nothing to see, is there?” Slater said. “Not yet, anyway.”

  “Just do it, man. And then come back to me. Work to do.”

  “Aye, me lord.”

  Slater turned to pass under the stairs, to use the servants’ entrance. “Slater,” William said. “One more thing. Who is our man at the Academy?”

  Slater gave a throaty, greasy-sounding laugh. “We have a man, me lord. Peebles, in the kitchens. We also have a woman.”

  “Excellent Slater,” William purred, pleased and surprised. He smoothed his vest with his palms. “How did you manage that? And when?”

  “One of them horsemistresses was . . . what you might call impatient, me lord. Thought when she came back from the borders, she ought to be senior. A word in her ear was all it took.”

  “But do we have—an assurance?” William asked.

  Slater nodded, and tapped his nose with a none-too-clean finger. “Her family has been in some trouble of recent years,” he said. “Only thing kept her father out of prison was having a daughter in the service of the Duke.”

  William nodded satisfaction. “Most helpful, Slater. Good work. And what’s her name?”

  “Strong. Irina Strong.”

  “Ah. Useful.” William ran a hand thoughtfully over his smooth chin. “Of course—once my lord father dies, she won’t be necessary.”

  Slater shrugged. “Backup, me lord. Backup.”

  EIGHTEEN

  HESTER caught Lark’s arm after breakfast, holding her back from the tide of girls pouring out into the sunshine. “Mamá’s here,” she said. “That’s our carriage in the courtyard.”

  Lark laughed. “Hester, you always get what you want, don’t you?”

  Hester grinned. “No point in being Lord and Lady Beeth’s daughter if you can’t pull a few strings now and again.”

  They stood in the doorway as the other students moved to the stables, or around the Hall to the classrooms. “But, Hester . . . what about Mistress Strong? I’m supposed to be studying etiquette with her this morning.”

  Hester waved a hand with blithe unconcern. “Oh, never mind that,” she said. “Mamá is having a word with the Head. Everything will be taken care of.”

  “And Tup?”

  “You left the little goat with him, didn’t you? Molly?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “And my Golden Morning has her oc-hound. They won’t miss us before tonight!”

  Lark looked down the broad steps at the fine equipage awaiting them. Two dappled draught horses, with enormous hooves and tufted fetlocks, stood patiently in the traces. A driver in scarlet livery perched on the high bench, the reins loose in his hands. Another liveried man lounged beside the carriage door, which was
open to show piles of thick cushions.

  Petra and a companion were just passing the carriage. Petra looked up at Lark and Hester standing side by side, and the look in her eyes startled Lark. She looked jealous, of course, but she also looked—confused, Lark thought, as if she couldn’t quite make sense of the situation. The Headmistress came out of the Hall with a tall, elegantly dressed woman beside her. The woman smiled at Hester, and kissed her cheek. Petra spun about, and stalked away toward the stables.

  Lark was introduced to Lady Beeth, whose large features and easy grin reminded her very much of Hester. The girls, of course, wore their Academy habits, but Lady Beeth was dressed for town in a girdled tabard and a rope of pearls that hung to her waist. She regarded Lark for a long moment, then nodded, and murmured to her daughter, “Yes, indeed, I do see the problem.” Lark touched her unruly hair, blushing with embarrassment.

  Anabel shook hands prettily with Lady Beeth, and then climbed up to nestle among the cushions next to Lark. Hester and her mamá began to chat as the horses set up a heavy, steady trot. The liveried man stood on a running board outside, visible through the curtained window. Lark turned to the opposite window. The hedgerows passed with surprising speed. She would have liked to sit up with the driver, to watch the action of the horses’ great haunches, the bobbing of their heads, to see how he managed the reins, but she supposed that would be considered unladylike. She wanted to ask a dozen questions about the feeding and grooming and dispositions of draught horses. She turned to ask Lady Beeth, and was surprised to find Hester and her mamá speaking seriously of some matter to do with the Council of Lords.

  “Isn’t it a lovely carriage?” Anabel murmured in her ear. “My parents’ isn’t half so fine.”

  Lark laughed. “Ours is an oxcart!”

  Anabel’s eyes widened. “Truly?” she breathed. “You ride in an oxcart? Oh, that sounds wonderful fun!”

  “If you like your bones jounced about, it is,” Lark said. She waved at the landscape flowing past the carriage windows. “And of course, you ride slowly enough to see everything!”

  The two great horses covered the distance between the Academy and Osham more swiftly than Lark would have believed possible. Along the way, Hester pointed out the turning that led to her family home, less than an hour’s drive from the Academy. A signpost stood at the corner where a lane ran between neatly trimmed hedgerows, proclaiming the road to Beeth House. Lark was speechless before this evidence of Hester’s status. A sign, just for your family home! She could hardly wait to point it out to Nick or Brye when they next came to the Academy.

  Before another hour had passed, Lady Beeth and the girls were handed out by the liveried servant, and Lark stood gazing up at the turrets and spires of the White City. Bright awnings shaded the dozens of shop windows that lined the street, and the paving stones were laid out in patterns of black and white.

  “Blackstone!” she murmured, caressing one of the black squares with her toe.

  “Does it interest you?” Lady Beeth asked, her eyebrows raised.

  “My brother Edmar . . .” Lark began, and then stopped, a little abashed. Her brothers could hardly be more different from her present company.

  “What?” Hester demanded. “What about Edmar?”

  “Hester, dear,” Lady Beeth said mildly. “You mustn’t press your friend.”

  “Never mind, Mamá,” Hester said gaily. “She understands me. Don’t you, Hamley?”

  Lark smiled. “Aye,” she said. She gestured to the paving stones beneath their feet. “Blackstone comes from the Uplands,” she told Lady Beeth. “And my brother Edmar works in a quarry, cutting it out of the ground.”

  “How fascinating,” Lady Beeth said warmly. “On the ride back, Larkyn, you must tell me all about your family.” She adjusted the little jeweled cap she wore on her smoothly coifed brown hair. “And now . . .” She indicated the row of shops before them with a gay wave of her gloved hand. “Let’s see what the White City has for us today.”

  Lark’s experience of shopping had been limited to a rare excursion into Dickering Park each fall for winter necessities. When she outgrew or simply wore out her clothes, Nick usually bartered with the seamstress in Willakeep for replacements, and each new set looked exactly like the previous one.

  To wander in and out of the elegant, colorful establishments of Osham was at first delightful, and then overwhelming. Lady Beeth turned over hair clips and brushes and jeweled pins with her fingers, assaulted clerks with questions, rejected item after item without hesitation. From time to time she twisted Lark’s mass of curls and tried to clip them into place, then tossed the inadequate bauble back into its tray, and led her little troupe off to the next shop.

  Hester winked at Lark behind her mother’s back as they exited one shop and crossed the street to another. “I told you,” she whispered. “Mamá loves this. She is meeting a great challenge, like telling Papá what to say in the Council of Lords, or like a warrior doing battle with one of the Old Ones!”

  “I’m afraid,” Lark murmured, “that my hair is beyond even your mamá’s powers!”

  Anabel, it turned out, was as tireless in their mission as Lady Beeth, exclaiming over scarves and pins, and suggesting this method or that of restraining the offending tresses.

  By the end of two hours, Lark felt there had been no progress at all. Everything she looked at seemed pointless. She would have felt guilty about the whole excursion if Anabel and Lady Beeth had not made several purchases that delighted them. Hester rolled her eyes as the two chose yet another shop to try. “Here we go again,” she muttered.

  Lark started to follow Hester across the street to the latest discovery, but paused with her foot still on the walkway, her eye caught by an herbalist’s shop. A little fetish hung in the window, reminding her of the Tarn at Deeping Farm. Had their own Tarn, when it was new, ever possessed such a vivid yellow skirt, such shining bead eyes? Theirs was ragged and faded, but still, this bright new one conjured a vivid image of her old kitchen, with its dented pots and worn curtains, its rich smells.

  “Hamley! Are you coming?” Hester called.

  “I’ll be there in a moment.” Lark waved, and then, on an impulse, went into the shop.

  It was a tiny space, crowded with merchandise. There were a dozen fetishes she had no name for. There was one shelf full of smallgods, even one of Zito, his great ears and phallus rendered in painted clay. There were at least a dozen images of the twin gods Erd and Estia, entwined in their traditional embrace. A cabinet with glass doors held vials and jars and bunches of dried herbs tied together with string. The shop seemed to vibrate with dark energy. Lark fingered a small, fox-faced icon, feeling a delicious shiver through her fingers.

  She thrust the icon back onto its shelf when the proprietor emerged from a curtained space at the back of the shop. She was a tall, ribbony woman with gray hair skinned back from her sharp-nosed face. When she saw Lark, she tipped her head to one side, looking like an elongated bird. Even her smile was beaky.

  “Welcome, Miss,” she said. “I’m always glad to see a flyer in my shop. You need an image of Kalla, perhaps, for your horse’s stall?” Lark shook her head. “A simple, then?”

  “Oh, no,” Lark said. She looked at her boots, embarrassed. “I just—”

  The herbalist tipped her head to the other side, and dropped her voice. “Ah. I see. Perhaps you need a potion for—for a bit of trouble you might be having.”

  Lark’s head came up. “Of course I don’t need a potion!” she snapped.

  The woman held up a hand. “Now, now, only asking.” She ran her hand down her stained apron. “Just as well you don’t, Miss. I hear them winged horses can smell a potion as well as they can smell a man.”

  Lark took a step back toward the door, wishing she hadn’t come in. “I was only curious,” she said stiffly. “You have a Tarn in your window. It reminded me of the one we keep at home.”

  “A Tarn?” The woman’s eyebrows rose to little point
s. “A Tarn, indeed. Few calls for a Tarn here in Osham. You’re from the Uplands, mayhap?”

  Lark hesitated, but before she could decide whether she wanted to tell this woman anything about herself, the curtain swept aside again, and a stooped, heavy-bodied man emerged. Lark’s nostrils twitched at the miasma of herbs and sweat that surrounded him. He peered around the herbalist to see her clearly.

  “I’ll be with you in a moment, Slater,” the woman said.

  He nodded, but he stayed where he was, eyeing Lark.

  “Excuse me,” Lark said. “I don’t think I need anything here after all.”

  “No, wait, Miss,” the woman said. “Let me give you something to take back to school with you . . .” She crossed to a shelf with an assortment of icons. She plucked a small one out of the jumble, and pressed it into Lark’s hand.

  Lark tried to hand it back to her. “No,” she said, but her protest was weak.

  It was a lovely little thing, an image of Kalla done in some kind of gray stone. Kalla’s tail swept up and over her shoulders, and her horse face had been carved with tiny, delicate features, the ears small and pricked forward, the eyes widely spaced.

  Lark said, “No, I can’t take it. I have no money.”

  “It’s a gift,” the woman said. She backed away, leaving Lark holding the bit of carving. “When you ride your winged horse, you’ll remember me.”

  Lark, confused and unsure of the propriety of accepting the icon, mumbled a hasty thanks, and made her escape. She hurried across the street to the milliner’s shop where Lady Beeth and the girls had gone. The stooped man stood in the doorway of the herbalist’s, and as she went in search of her companions, she felt his dark gaze on her back. Unconsciously, she held the figure of Kalla to her breast for protection until the shop door had closed behind her.

  “Larkyn? Are you all right?” It was Lady Beeth, holding out a hand to her, urging her to a chair before a tall mirror. “You look a little pale, dear.”

  “What’s that?” Hester pointed to the icon Lark had clutched to her chest.