All is Fair

by Emma Newman

  “I do apologise,” Alexander said, positioning his bookmark carefully before getting up to come to her. “Did you manage to sleep any better?”

  “Not really,” she said and they kissed each other’s cheeks three times in the Dutch fashion. She doubted she would ever sleep well again. How could she lie in bed alone and drift off after spending over two hundred years of nights with the man she loved curled around her? She’d have to visit the Shopkeeper soon and buy a Charm to give her some rest.

  “Are you happy with your room? It’s one of the best in the college. Or would you prefer another? I’m sure it can be arranged.” When she didn’t reply immediately he twisted one of his cufflinks. “Or do you plan to go back to Hampton Court? Father provided most generously for you in the will. You don’t need to worry about a thing. I’m more than happy for you to live at Hampton even though I own it now. For as long as you wish, I have no desire to–”

  “Alexander.” She held up her hand and seated herself opposite him. “Darling, that’s not what I want to discuss. We need to talk about the Londinium throne.”

  He leaned back in the chair, laced his fingers in front of him. “Is there anything to talk about?”

  “Yes! We can’t just ignore what happened. Your father was accused, judged, murdered and now remembered for a crime he didn’t commit.”

  He squirmed, looking away. “I know.”

  “And it isn’t just the fact that the throne was taken from him in such an offensive way, it’s the fact that it was an Iris who took it. They destroyed our influence on the mundane royal line and then, when we finally achieve our rightful place in Society, they take power from us again.”

  “Father always said we needed to put that behind us.”

  “Your father didn’t know the depths the Irises would sink to.”

  “But he did know what it did to my grandfather,” Alexander replied, now looking at her. “He said feuds between families did nothing but tear people apart as well as Society. He knew that better than anyone.”

  Margritte sighed, remembering the last time she’d seen her father-in-law. He was a broken man, drunk and mostly mad, hidden away by the family before he drank himself to death. Once the Earl of Oxford, one of Queen Anne’s most important politicians, destroyed along with her and her reign by the Iris curse. “Your father was a sensitive, noble and patient man. He waited over a hundred years for his time to come and then it was stolen from him in moments. Can you rest knowing your father was murdered by an Iris – nothing more than an arrogant child with his patron pulling the strings?”

  Alexander took a breath to say something, reconsidered and instead reached across to pull the cord next to the fire twice. “I remember when I used to get upset about things, Father always used to remind me to look at the bigger picture.”

  Margritte controlled a flash of rage. “I’m not a child, Alexander.”

  “But there is a bigger picture to consider. You’re speaking as though you want to take revenge–”

  “Not revenge, I want to take back the throne that was stolen from your father.”

  “Regardless,” Alexander said, “that’s tantamount to war. Is that what you want?”

  “I didn’t march into the Court accusing a decent man of terrible things! I didn’t murder him and steal his Dukedom! I didn’t ask for this war but if that’s what it takes to restore to us what is rightfully ours – and has been for hundreds of years – then so be it!”

  Alexander paled. “Mother, you’re grieving, you’re not–”

  “You are avoiding facing up to your responsibility.”

  “Which is?”

  “To help me clear your father’s name and take back the Dukedom.”

  “You want me to be Duke?”

  “It’s your birthright.”

  There was a knock at the door and Alexander called in the butler, who had tea, sandwiches and cakes ready to serve. Margritte seethed as the tea was poured. Her son had been left in his ivory tower too long.

  Once the butler had left and he’d taken a rather audible gulp of tea, Alexander said, “Mother, I’m no Duke, I’m a professor and the Vice-Chancellor of Oxenford! I can’t just abandon my responsibilities here. And I’m sorry, but I can’t share your opinion on the way to proceed. Starting a war with the Irises would be… foolish.”

  “You think I’m a grief-stricken fool?”

  “I think you’re making decisions whilst traumatised. I couldn’t possibly sanction a war with the Irises; there are many who live in Oxenford. They hold three colleges here, and, after the terrible disruption to the university caused by the fall of the Roses, I couldn’t possibly see how a war would be supported by my peers or the Chancellor.”

  “Damn the Chancellor! He isn’t one of us!”

  “Mother–” Alexander made no effort to hide how appalled he was “–I cannot risk the stability of Oxenford just because you cannot manage your grief.”

  She stood up so quickly she knocked the tea cup onto the floor. “How dare you dismiss my loyalty to our family as a weak woman’s grief. I suggest you think very carefully about where your loyalties lie.”

  “Where are you going?” he asked as she turned her back on him and stepped over the broken porcelain.

  “To speak to the Patroon. I’m curious to see whether he thinks our family’s honour is less important than the comfort of a Sorcerer and his pet academics.”

  3

  Sam looked at the people filling the crematorium’s chapel. He didn’t recognise most of them. Some of the women were crying, all dressed in the same kind of corporate gear Leanne used to wear, only black. Their grieving made him aware of his own hollow detachment. He felt nothing except the sharp awareness of the man who’d killed her sitting three rows behind him. Bastard.

  “I would like to speak at the funeral,” Neugent had said in a letter redirected from his house in Bath to Lord Iron’s vast estate in Lancashire. “I worked very closely with Leanne for several years and had the utmost respect and admiration for her.”

  Sam had burnt the letter and stood at the window, looking out over landscaped gardens, wondering what the fuck was happening to his life. Lord Iron had dined with him the night he arrived; they’d talked about Leanne mostly, then he’d been called away on business. “Stay, relax, grieve,” Iron said as he shook his hand. “Treat this as your own house. The staff will provide everything you need. I’ll be back for the funeral.”

  He’d watched the limousine crawl down the drive, listened to the crackle of the gravel beneath its tyres and thought of the last time he saw his wife. It was all he seemed capable of thinking about.

  The funeral had been delayed by the recovery from his own injuries and by the autopsy, which gave a simple (and incorrect) conclusion: natural causes. A blood vessel had burst in her brain and then she dropped dead. The report detailed that she was slightly underweight but otherwise in good health.

  Several nights in a row he dreamt of her on the underground platform. In one dream they held hands waiting for the train together. He’d woken up crying but soon sank back into the numbness that endured throughout the funeral arrangements. He’d left most of the details to her parents. His mother-in-law seemed to think the choice of flowers was far more important than he ever could. Her parents didn’t seem to know about the separation, and, from the way most of the people there were looking at him, he didn’t think they did either. At least she’d been discreet about it. But that was Leanne: professional to the last. She wouldn’t have taken all her problems to work with her. She just left them behind in Bath.

  He took care not to look at Neugent and faced forwards again, unable to stop his gaze drifting towards the coffin. Sam could still feel the pressure of it on his shoulder. He wondered if his skin would ever forget the feeling of carrying his dead wife in a heavy box. He tried to imagine her body lying inside it, cut and stitched up again. He could just as easily imagine it filled with sand or with dozens of dolls or old mobile phones. Each set
of imagined contents became more fantastical; all lacked any emotional impact.

  The worry that Lord Poppy would do something to wreck it all or pull him away plagued him, but he hadn’t heard from him or the faerie since he delivered Cathy’s painting. Perhaps Poppy had forgotten about him.

  “She was so young,” his mother-in-law said.

  She was sat next to him and Leanne’s father was sitting on the other side with an arm around her. He too was staring at the coffin. Sam realised it was the longest time he’d actually sat with Leanne’s parents. He’d barely made an impression in their life. His parents were in Australia. They’d offered to come but he told them not to worry about it. They’d never liked Leanne. It would have been awkward. His mum would only have baked two dozen cakes and urged him to talk about his feelings every five minutes. He didn’t have the stomach for either, nor for the way his father would have wittered on about his stamp collection to anyone he could corner.

  Leanne’s mother glanced at him, perhaps waiting for a response to her comment but Sam said nothing. There were no words in him.

  They shared the front row with the pallbearers. Aside from him and her father they were made up of cousins and uncles, some of whom he’d never met. They weren’t a close family and many of them hadn’t even been to the wedding. He was sitting in a room full of strangers at his wife’s funeral. As he tried to look anywhere but at the coffin he caught glimpses of people trying to point him out discreetly during whispered conversations. It made him feel like an exhibit at some grotesque circus.

  The man from the crematorium started the ceremony. It was non-religious, according to Leanne’s wishes, and bland. He finally stopped worrying that Poppy would find some way to interfere with it.

  Then it was his turn to speak. The paper was crumpled and soft in his hand. He couldn’t even remember what he’d written on it. Sam walked up to the podium, decorated with flowers lovingly chosen by another woman he didn’t really know, and looked out over the congregation. Lord Iron was sitting at the back, looking straight at him. He inclined his head towards Sam. What do you want with me? Sam pushed the thought aside and looked down at the paper.

  “Thank you for coming,” he started. His voice was too quiet and he leaned closer to the microphone. “I’m Sam, Leanne’s husband. I don’t know many of you, I’m assuming you know Leanne from work. She was… very dedicated and ambitious. In many ways you could say she was the exact opposite to me.” His awkward smile was reflected back at him from dozens of faces. “It didn’t used to be that way. In university we were… happy.” He felt a crackle in his voice and looked back down at the piece of paper but it was covered in gibberish. “Something changed. I suppose that’s what happens, I think Leanne was better at growing up than I was. She became something… amazing, she had so much energy and she was fearless.” People were nodding now. People who knew her better than he did. “I can’t help but feel stupid when I think about her. I thought we’d have longer together, but people always do, don’t they? We’re all on a clock. We’re all going to die. That’s why we’re all here – not just because of Leanne but because we know it’s going to happen to us and we’re scared and we want to be with other people who are scared too. Leanne should be here and I should be in that box. That’s the way I see it. She had more to give.”

  His throat felt like it was closing up and his head began to throb. He crushed the piece of paper in his fist and left the podium. For a moment he almost left the chapel, but his mother-in-law was reaching a hand towards him, all tears and neediness. Even though it repelled him, he went to sit next to her and embraced her as Leanne’s father went up to speak.

  Sam didn’t hear a single word he said.

  A knock on the door woke Cathy from dreams of the butler, Morgan, speaking to her about afternoon tea with Bennet’s voice and pouring the poisonous liquid curse from the teapot. As the nurse opened the door she glanced to her bedside and saw the glass was gone, along with any outward traces of what Bennet had done. Had she dreamt it?

  Will walked in and the nurse curtsied. His cheeks were pink and there were tiny drops of water caught in his hair. He smiled at her and she returned it. The Charm-addled dreams about him hadn’t focused on how handsome he was. Seeing him fresh-faced and happy brought back other memories too, ones that made her heart thrum.

  “My love,” he said and came over to kiss her, sending the nurse scuttling into a corner to busy herself. “How are you feeling?”

  “Ready to get up,” she said firmly. “Have you been out riding?”

  There was a moment of confusion and then he touched his hair. “Oh, yes… it’s raining in Mundanus. Are you sure you’re ready? It’s only been three weeks.”

  “Nearly a month,” Cathy said and pulled the covers back. “Honestly, Will, if I spend another day in here I’ll go mad. I was thinking an hour or two in Mundanus would do me the world of good.” She didn’t want to go back to the park, but she did want to see greenery again and hear birds singing and feel fresh air on her face.

  “The weather is terrible.”

  “And Her Grace isn’t ready to leave her bed yet, if you’ll forgive me for intruding,” the nurse said.

  Cathy frowned at her. “Her Grace”? What an odd thing to call her.

  “If Cathy feels she’s ready then I respect that,” Will said and the nurse retreated. Cathy squeezed his hands, happy to have an ally. “I have a surprise for you.” His eyes were even more beautiful when he was excited.

  He helped her out of the bed which made her feel awkward and feeble. It was strange to have to think so much about moving, as if her body had got rusty inside and she had to remind it of how it used to move. As much as she didn’t want to admit it, the attack had really taken it out of her. Her legs felt so heavy and when she stood the room tilted before Will wrapped an arm about her shoulders. “Are you sure you’re ready to go downstairs?”

  “Yes, I’m so sick of this room. How’s Sophia?”

  “She’s fine. She’s with Uncle Vincent.”

  The nurse helped her into a robe and slippers and Cathy shuffled out of the room, Will holding her as they walked. She remembered how gentle he was after Lord Iris had cut her wrist and the night they finally consummated the marriage. They’d hardly been together since then and she felt awkward and uncertain of herself. She could remember resolving to stay away from him once her lust had got the better of her, for fear of getting pregnant and making escape more difficult. But now that she was going to stay in the Nether and fight the system, did she still need to do that? Could he become an ally too?

  The possibility of falling for her own husband was not something Cathy had anticipated and it made her nervous. She had to stay focused on what she was going to do to make Society change, and the last thing she needed was to be all lovestruck, let alone pregnant. So what if he was handsome and clever and kind? If she fell into the trap of being in love with him she’d never be able to carve out a better life for herself or anyone else.

  “You’re looking much better,” he said as they made their way to the stairs. “The very best care was provided, both in Mundanus and by the Agency. I’m told there won’t be any long-term problems.”

  “It was bad, wasn’t it?”

  He paused to kiss her cheek again. “You almost died. If it hadn’t been for the mundane doctors you wouldn’t be with me now.”

  “Are you all right?” she asked and he smiled.

  “Just glad we got through this.”

  She leaned against him as they walked, and felt exhausted by the time they reached the top of the stairs. She didn’t say anything about Bennet for fear she’d cough and be packed off to bed again. Halfway down she noticed footfalls behind her that seemed too heavy to be the nurse. She glanced back and saw an unfamiliar man following them down a couple of paces behind. His blond hair was cropped short in a modern, mundane style, his eyes were a dull blue and his neat nose looked too small for his face.

  “Who’s that?”r />
  “Someone to keep you safe.”

  “What, like a bodyguard?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is that necessary?”

  “Yes.”

  “So that man who stabbed me, he’s still out there?”

  “No… he’s dead.”

  She wondered how he’d died. Did Sam do something? She jolted. Sam! Had he been hurt too? She couldn’t ask Will, otherwise he’d know they’d met and it wasn’t something easily explained away. The sense of the world spinning whilst she’d been tucked up in bed was becoming frightening. What else had happened? “But if he’s dead–”

  “You’re still at risk.”

  “But the man attacked Sophia, it might be her they were after. I don’t need a–”

  “Catherine, this is not up for debate.” They reached the bottom of the stairs. “I didn’t protect you before, I’m not making that mistake again. There’s no way Sophia was the target – no one else knows what she means to me.” He stroked her cheek tenderly. “But they know how much you do.”

  Cathy tried hard not to lose her thoughts to the messy soup of emotions his tenderness elicited. There was no way he could love her, he was just trying to be a good husband. She was too tired to argue about the bodyguard; that would have to wait.

  “Now, I don’t want you to worry about a thing.” Will helped her to walk again. “I’ve been working on something whilst you’ve been recovering and I think it will make you feel much better.”

  He guided her down the hallway, past his study and the red drawing room, to the chamber they’d originally allocated as a smaller dining room for intimate dinners. He pulled a key threaded onto a blue silk ribbon out of his pocket and unlocked the door. “This is yours,” he said, placing it in the palm of her hand. “Close your eyes.” She did so and he opened the door. He guided her a few steps in, instructed the bodyguard to stay outside and then closed the door. “You can look now.”

  The room had been transformed into a library. She turned in a full circle, taking in the shelves of books. There was a pair of high-backed leather chairs and footstools, one either side of the fireplace, each with a small table next to it. A cheval mirror stood in the corner, covered in blue silk and facing one of the bookshelves rather than into the room. She looked down at the key and then at Will. “You made a library for me?” She felt a rush of blood to her cheeks and chest. It was the thing she had wanted most as a child and the desire had never left her.