by Emma Newman
“Right, let’s get this straight,” she said to Sam. “I don’t want you to break the magic on me, even though the Iris curse is offensive as hell, because there’s other magic – wish magic – that I want to preserve.”
“Poppy told me about that,” Sam said. “He told me you were going to destroy everything because of the third wish you made.”
“He did? But that’s not what I wished for. My wish was to reach my full potential.”
“Well, he thinks you’re potentially destructive. Oh, fuck!” He slapped his hand over his mouth and looked at Will. “He also said you shouldn’t know, because if you tell your patron, he’ll be able to take what he wants from Cathy instead of your baby.”
“I knew he wanted something from our child,” Cathy said. “Well, that settles it. We are never having children, Will.”
Will frowned at the declaration, disturbed by the thought of losing the chance to be a father. “Let’s try not to worry about every single thing at once,” he said, but he was quietly panicking. He couldn’t let anything happen to any child of his, nor to Cathy. Perhaps he needed to accept the help Sam was offering, as galling as it would be. Perhaps fighting the system as Cathy wanted was the only way to keep his family safe. “Tell me more about this wish business,” he said.
“There’s no need to worry, you’ll both be safe, whatever happens.” Cathy grinned at Carter. “You too. The wish was to reach my full potential in such a way that wouldn’t ‘draw the attention of the Arbiters, nor endanger my life, nor that of the individuals I love and care for – be they Fae, a member of the great families or a mundane’. It’s going to be tough, but we’ll be all right.”
Will knew there was a world of difference between endangering someone’s life and simply making their existence miserable. She had a lot more faith in the strength of Poppy’s magic – and its interpretation – than he did.
“But,” Cathy added, “I would appreciate some help, Sam.”
Sam nodded. “I can keep the Fae out for a start, and break any curses put on the staff, that sort of thing. But are you certain you want to stay?” His eyes flicked to Will. “Are you sure he won’t stop you doing what you want to do once I’ve gone?”
Cathy looked at Will and he let her search his face.
“I’m certain,” Cathy said. “Will, you’ll be all right with Sam coming to visit in the future, won’t you?”
Will nodded. It wasn’t the time to complicate things with his doubts and he might need Sam himself. “I’m sorry we got off to a bad start,” he said, mostly for her benefit. “Let’s shake hands whilst I have nothing you can break upon me.”
They stood, shook hands like gentlemen but looked at each other with the hard stare of men who knew nothing had changed at all. Cathy led Sam out, promising to be back soon. Carter followed her and Will was left alone.
Whilst he felt no warmth for the man, having Sam on side could be critical if he was indeed capable of what he claimed. And hearing of Iris planning to take what he wanted – whatever that might be – from his wife or his child made Will’s teeth grind. Why fight to maintain a status quo in which it would be acceptable for either of them to be taken from him? It might not have been the schedule that he would have chosen, but it was clear to him now that there was no way – and now no desire – to find a way back to where they were before.
Morgan brought fresh tea and apologies for taking so long, explaining that he was trying to settle over a hundred people into the household, many of whom had extraordinary needs.
The tea made his lip sting but it was worth it. By the time he was on his second cup, Cathy returned. She looked radiantly happy and then seemed to remember what they were talking about before Sam interrupted.
“So then… what’s it to be, Will? Are you with me?”
Will thought of the first ball of the season, how ungrateful she’d been and how the sight of the bruises on her arms at the Peonias’ soirée had stirred something protective inside him. He recalled the gut-twisting guilt she’d made him feel after they’d married and the countless times she’d irritated him. He remembered the way she’d glowed in the Londinium salons when debating some point of philosophy and how she’d dealt with Freddy’s attentions. He thought of the panic he’d felt when he learned of the attack, and the hours of watching her sleep as she healed, and the smile when he gave her the library. “There’s a huge amount to talk about,” he said, reaching for her hands. “But there’s something I need to tell you first.”
Her brow creased and she let him pull her down to sit on the arm of his chair.
“The next few weeks, no, the next few years are going to be hard, Cathy. I don’t know if we’ll come through this. Lord Iris isn’t going to forget what he wants from us.” She took a breath but he pressed a finger to her lips. “We’ll sort something out, I’m sure. Having a friend like Lord Iron gives me some hope. But before we work out how we make the changes that need to be made, there's something I want you to know.”
She looked frightened for the first time since he’d come back.
“I think you are the bravest, strangest, most infuriating, intelligent and fascinating woman I’ve ever had the privilege to know and…” he paused, uncertain whether to pin a single word to the mess of emotions she stirred in him. “And I love you, Cathy.”
She laughed and a fat teardrop rolled down her cheek. “Oh. All right. That’s better than I thought it would be.” She looked up, nervous.
“What is it?”
“I was just waiting for a piano to fall on my head or something.” There was a knock at the door and she jumped to her feet. “Come in.”
A woman walked in, pale and red-eyed as if she’d been crying. She was dressed like a maid, her brown hair tied back in a bun, but she didn’t curtsy and look away like a maid would.
“Will,” said Cathy, “I want to introduce you to someone. This is Miss Rainer. She was my governess and she’s the bravest person I know. Miss Rainer, this is Will, my husband.”
Will kissed her hand, thinking it best to treat her as royalty, given the way Cathy clearly adored her.
Cathy gestured for Miss Rainer to sit. As she did so, Cathy leaned over and whispered, “I love you too” in his ear. Then, blushing, she tugged at her sleeves nervously and picked up the teapot. “Tea?”
29
Margritte listened to the scratching sound and tried to imagine it was something other than a rat. In the darkness, the sound could only come from claws against stone, and with thoughts of the claws came thoughts of the teeth and the whiskers and she drew her knees up under her chin. She must be imagining it. There weren’t any animals in the Nether.
She couldn’t stop shivering. The tower room was freezing cold, so much so that she wondered if it had been cursed, and the damp from the stones beneath her was leaching into her bones. It wasn’t just the cold though. She was frightened, more so than she’d ever been in her life, even more than the time she and Rupert were nearly killed.
What could have happened to Rupert? He seemed invulnerable. Had Ekstrand finally managed to kill him? Was it yet another disastrous repercussion of her poor judgement? She thought of his awful manners and strange affection for her. She couldn’t decide how she felt about his death. She was saddened, but not grief-stricken. She didn’t really know him and they were at odds with each other when they parted. The interruption from the gargoyle was a relief at the time. Now Oxenford was in the hands of Nathaniel Iris, she wished Rupert was still alive.
Just the thought of Nathaniel made the shivering worse. After exiling her son – something for which she was grateful – he’d marched her out of the Sheldonian, his fist in her hair, making her stumble as she tried to walk without him ripping it from her scalp. He threw her in a carriage at the end of Broad Street and climbed in with her, forcing her onto her knees inside as they rode to the end of the city.
He made her watch as one of Lord Iris’ faeries made a new road to Oxford Castle, a property outside
the boundaries of Oxenford, and then made her walk along it as he held her hands behind her back.
“My ancestor built this,” he said as they arrived at the newly reflected castle. “Lord Iris was very disappointed when he learned its anchors had been destroyed. He was delighted to restore them for me. A fitting place for my rule, I feel.”
“I find it interesting that your brother was named after the conqueror, rather than you,” she’d said. He’d pinned her wrists higher up her back the rest of the way. It had hurt so much but she didn’t cry. Neither did she when they reached the castle and he showed her the tower. Even the mundanes had felt the evil of the place; she knew the anchor property had been a prison for hundreds of years.
“You’ll rot in here,” he said as he threw her in. “Unless,” he said through the grill in the door after he’d locked it, “I can find another use for you.” He’d looked at her breasts then, and below her waist, as if seeing through the black satin. For a moment, he looked as if he was going to unlock the door again, but someone called his name and he left, taking the only light with him.
The darkness was welcome then, but not any more. I deserve this, she thought. I should have let it go. She remembered Bartholomew teaching Alexander that it was better to rise above a feud than fuel it. Why hadn’t she listened to that herself?
“Bartholomew,” she whispered, needing to hear his name in the darkness. She tried to remember what her name sounded like when he spoke it but all she could hear was the awful scratching claws.
Then she imagined donning a silver cloak and escaping into the Nether, as Queen Matilda had donned a cloak the colour of snow and escaped across the frozen river almost a thousand years before. She held the image in her mind as she closed her eyes, arms tight around her legs and head on her knees, the silver cloak blurring into the white queen as she drifted towards sleep.
A noise made her stir. She thought the outline burning into the stone was a dream, so she closed her eyes again. When something touched her arm she jolted, banging her head against the stone as she saw a man’s silhouette against a bright rectangle of light.
“Margritte, come with me.”
“William?” She didn’t trust herself. It couldn’t be him.
“Yes,” he replied, helping her to stand. “Come on.”
She let herself be guided through the Way, out of the cell. She found herself in a large bedroom, with a metal bath full of steaming, sweet-smelling water, by a roaring fire. Fresh clothes were on the bed and tea was on a table alongside a box filled with bandages and dressings. She glanced back at the dank cell before the Way closed.
“Welcome to my home,” William said, guiding her on unsteady legs to a chair beside a dressing table. “There’s a maid ready to help you bathe, but let me see to that cut first.”
“I… don’t understand.” She couldn’t stop shaking.
“I told you that I’d do everything I could to put things right,” he said, bringing a box over with a small bowl of water. “I wasn’t prepared for what Nathaniel did and I couldn’t say anything against him there. I didn’t want him to take the city like that and do what he did to you, but to speak against him whilst he wore the Patroon’s sword would have been treason.”
“But isn’t rescuing me just that?”
William smiled as he soaked a ball of cotton wool in the water. “Nathaniel would never guess his own brother did it. His arrogance makes him complacent. Besides, I couldn’t trust him to treat you well. It seems I was right. He didn’t… hurt you any more than this, did he?”
She shook her head and winced as he cleaned the wound.
“Your son is at Hampton Court and safe also. He doesn’t know you’re here. Of course, you’ll have to hide until certain arrangements are in place.” William dabbed at the cut with a piece of dry linen. “But you’ll be safe here.”
“Does anyone else know you’ve done this?”
“Cathy, of course. She’s desperate to speak to you once you’ve refreshed yourself. And there are two others who know – they’re waiting with her. But I’m under strict instructions to leave their identities as a surprise.”
“Does she know what I did to you?”
“Yes. Especially the part where you untied me and got me away from the Sorcerer.”
“She was right about you,” Margritte whispered. “You are a good man.”
Something flickered across his face, making him look away and rummage in the box. “Here we are. These aren’t the prettiest accessories, but they’ll keep the wound closed.” He waved a strip of paper with what looked like tiny butterfly shapes glued to it. He peeled one off and placed it gently over the cut, then added a second. “There. You’ll be good as new in a few days.”
“Do you remember that first time we met? Cathy stuck a fork into Freddy and we had to send him home early.”
William nodded. “Yes, I remember that.”
“We sat up late into the night talking about you and Cathy. Bartholomew was so excited. We had plans, you see, and–”
“Please,” his face crumpled. “I don’t want to–”
“He knew the two of you could help us to change Londinium,” Margritte pressed on. “I’ve come to realise, these last few days, that he was a very wise man. He saw the best in people. Had I held more of him closer to my heart in my grief, I wouldn’t have destroyed everything my family had left. What I wanted to say, William, is that I don’t blame you any more. You were used by your Patron and I want something good to come of all this.”
William cleared his throat, looking up at the ceiling rose. “Cathy and I feel the same. We’re making dangerous plans, Margritte. Cathy thinks that you’ll be a great help to her, if you’re willing.”
She smiled. “I am.”
“I’ll fetch the maid,” he said, closing the box and tucking it under his arm. “Once you’re ready, she’ll take you to Cathy. Then we can all rest.”
“Thank you.” She gave a gentle curtsy as he bowed, and watched him leave.
She bathed away the grime of the prison cell and ate for the first time that day. The tea eased a headache that had been steadily worsening. The dress she’d been given was a passable fit in a dark enough green to be acceptable for mourning in the unusual circumstances. A black shawl was given to her, for which she was grateful, and she followed the maid downstairs. The house was full of people; she could hear laughter and crying in rooms she passed and the staff were busy despite the late hour.
“Mrs Margritte Semper-Augustus Tulipa,” the maid announced at the door and she was shown into a beautiful library.
“Margritte, I’m so glad you’re here.” Cathy came to her and gave her a swift, fierce embrace before she could see the other two people sitting by the fire. “I’m sure I don’t need to introduce you…”
She stepped aside as the two women stood. On the left was Charlotte Persificola-Viola and on the right was the one she and Bartholomew had searched for and lost hope of finding.
“Natasha Rainer!” she cried and rushed forwards. “Charlotte!”
The three of them embraced and laughed and wept and then laughed again. Margritte pulled back and extended a hand to Cathy, drawing her into the circle. They stood, arms about each other’s shoulders, taking in the sight of each other.
“In case you were wondering,” Charlotte said. “My husband is still a troll of a man.”
“The curse is gone!” Margritte cheered.
“I can say what I please again, thanks to a rather dashing friend of Cathy’s. But I’ll take more care than I did before.”
“This is all desperately exciting and wonderful,” Natasha said, “but we can’t weep all night. It’s already 3 o’clock in the morning and we don’t have all of the proposed changes for the Court drafted yet.”
“You haven’t changed either,” Margritte said, kissing her on the cheek.
“Before we get to work,” Cathy said, going to the teapot, “a toast. Ladies, I will charge your cups.” When they each had
a cup of tea, Cathy held hers high and said “To…”
“Freedom of Speech,” said Charlotte.
“The brave women – and men – who went before us,” said Natasha.
“Absent friends and loved ones,” said Margritte.
“The future,” said Cathy, chinking cups. “And all who sail in her!”
Sam pushed the keycard into the slot and adjusted the package under his arm as the door beeped and clicked open. He switched on the light, put the package to one side and took a brief look down the corridor before closing the door behind him.
The boxes were as he’d left them, along with her letters. He unwrapped the package and propped the photo of him and Leanne laughing in the field against a box, having reclaimed it earlier from the storage facility his house contents had been moved into.
He sat where he had before and read the last five letters Leanne had left him. He looked at the photo of her, letting the memory play out. He thought he would cry, having struggled to hold it in when he got it back in Exilium, but instead he felt calm.
He pulled out a notepad and pen from his rucksack and leaned back. He looked at Leanne’s long hair, the way her head was tipped back and how the laughter had seized her totally.
Dear Leanne,
I suppose it’s a bit weird, writing to you when you’re dead, but seeing as you wrote letters to me that could only be read once you’d died it kind of fits.
I didn’t speak very well at your funeral. I was all fucked up and angry and I think I was mostly angry at you. Don’t get me wrong, I wanted to tear Neugent a new one, but I felt like I had to speak about someone else in front of all of those people from your work life. I felt like you’d left me behind. I suppose you did, in a way, but not because I wasn’t good enough and that makes all the difference to me.