Stargazy Pie: Greenwing & Dart Book One

by Victoria Goddard

  Only the most tenuous remnants of self control prevented me from saying “I say!” like Mr. Dart.

  Still holding the sword, she sank down to her knees in the formal supplication. “Jemis, I am sorry for my behaviour this spring. I am sorry for what I did not say, that I did not stand behind you, that I did not prevent that travesty of scholarship from happening in the first place. I am sorry for attacking you last night—” Mrs. Etaris’ eyebrow lifted, but she said nothing—“and I am more sorry than I can say to learn the sad tale of your family history, into which I enquired at the Green Dragon last night. For all these things I apologize.”

  And she bowed right down to kiss my boots.

  I glanced at Mrs. Etaris, whose mouth was open in surprise, and then realized my own was gaping as badly. After a few astounded moments my heart started to beat too fast and I bent down. “Violet—”

  She resisted, sitting firmly on her knees while I tried to pull her up. “Do you accept my apology, sir?”

  “Violet! This is absurd.”

  She met my eyes with a solemn and serious intensity. “You accused me last night of dishonour: and though my anger forbade responding as I ought, I say now, you are correct.” With a grand gesture she threw her rapier down on the floor between us.

  I stepped back hastily, bumping into Mrs. Etaris, who steadied me without betraying a hint of alarm.

  Violet went on: “I am dishonoured. I should carry no sword. I beg you to accept my apology.” And down she went again.

  My study of Classical Shaian Literature had focussed on architectural puzzle poetry, but I had read enough of Violet’s beloved epics to know what I ought to do, silly and old-fashioned and uncomfortable as it seemed.

  I didn’t want to carry a grudge along with my snivels. Not when I knew—had realized last night—that there was a lot more going on in the world than my tired feud with Lark.

  I tried to blow my nose discreetly, and to put myself into some properly epic state of mind, but although a few lines from Aurora came to mind, I decided not to try Mrs. Etaris’ patience that much and instead stuck with plain prose. “Violet, I accept your apology. You did what anyone would do in the circumstances. Take back your sword and—and bear it with honour and valour in—in service of the truth.”

  This time she let me lift her up, using my left hand; with my right I picked up the sword by the blade and offered it back to her. She stared at me intently, and I thought inconsequentially how pretty her eyes were, and then I flushed and turned my head in embarrassment to where Mrs. Etaris was no longer gaping but was instead smiling. I cleared my throat.

  “Mrs. Etaris. May I present to you my, er, friend, Miss Violet Redshank, lately of Morrowlea? Miss Redshank, Mrs. Etaris, Ragnor Bella’s bookmistress. And my employer.”

  Violet bowed. Mrs. Etaris curtsied very slightly. There was a pause, and then Mrs. Etaris said, “How delightful a colour your coat is, Miss Redshank.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Etaris,” replied Violet, her voice demure. “I was most pleased to find it in a store in Laketon this summer.”

  I snorted, but that was a bad idea, and it took me a moment to recover my breath.

  “Poor Jemis. You seem to have caught a cold since last night.”

  “Oh, it’s possible. Mr. Dart and I fell into the Talgarths’ moat after—Please, never mind that.”

  She and Mrs. Etaris both raised their eyebrows again. Violet, shrugging, continued. “Very well then. Well. I did not tell you the entire story of my being here—nor why I was interested in the stargazy pie—” Mrs. Etaris narrowed her eyes, then smiled in some satisfaction, though why I didn’t know. “Jemis, Mr. Greenwing that is, I am looking for my—my cousin, who was kidnapped this summer.”

  I started. “Kidnapped!”

  “Yes. I have been following her trail. She is a gifted cook. I believe—I’m sure she made that pie.”

  I didn’t know quite what to say, so said what first came into my mind: “How did it get to be on the fountain?”

  “You seemed to know something of it. That’s why I’ve come to ask your assistance. If you will let bygones be bygones.”

  I found that grandiose apologies or not, I was still a bit indignant at her behaviour. “You tried to kill me last night!”

  “Oh, well, that was before I learned the truth,” Violet said, her hand touching her sword hilt.

  Mrs. Etaris had a slightly fixed expression on her face. “Now, Mr. Greenwing, I believe—”

  And she stopped, as the door banged opened hard enough to shake the glass in the windows.

  Mr. Dart thundered in with pallid cheeks and a glitter in his eyes, clutching his arm as if he’d hurt it. “Mr. Greenwing!” he cried. “The Lady’s curse is come upon me!”

  He held out his left arm, folding back his sleeve with trembling fingers, and showed to us a hand that shone white and smooth as polished marble.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Mrs. Etaris looked from Mr. Dart to Violet to me, frowned, and then said: “Mr. Greenwing, would you fetch some fresh coffee from Mr. Inglesides, and then we will be able to discuss your clearly quite remarkable evening’s activities in comfort.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Etaris,” I said, and hastened out before thinking to myself there was no reason at all to include Mrs. Etaris in the discussions, except that—well, except that she seemed to be thoroughly in the thick of things, and she was protecting me against her husband and my uncle—and to be honest, I liked her.

  The square was full of booths and market-day strangers. The Honourable Rag was in the midst of a crowd of fainting admirers near the fountain; he seemed to be flirting with some dairymaids as big and blond as he. (That sounded as if it ought to be a ballad. …)

  I ducked into the bakery, where a crowd of people were picking out bread and buns and market-day specialties. I exchanged greetings with them all, though I was struck, at sight of a man with a nick across his chin, by the realization that any one of them might have belonged to the cult performing blood magic to the Dark Kings.

  It was a disquieting thought and I was distracted buying coffee (and trying very hard to suppress an attack of sneezes all the while in the interests of hygiene), and ended up with a whole loaf of gingerbread and a frown from Mr. Inglesides as a result. He was short and hasty with the business of the day, and it wasn’t until I was back outside again that I realized I had probably offended him with my brusqueness.

  Mrs. Etaris had put a notice on the front door of Elderflower Books stating that the store was closed for half an hour due to a private collector’s arrival; the curtains were drawn to provide some protection against curious eyes, which a closure on market-day was sure to attract. When I entered, I saw that she’d pulled up an extra chair from the back room, so that Violet, Mr. Dart, and she could all sit down. I set my purchases on the counter and perched myself on the stepladder.

  “Will people not wonder about the store being closed?” I asked.

  “Yes, of course,” Mrs. Etaris said, “but your affairs, apart from being quite interesting, seem of an urgent nature. People will have noticed Miss Redshank’s arrival, and assume she is the noble collector who desires privacy for her purchases. Did you say anything at the bakery?”

  “No, Mr. Inglesides was busy and I was … distracted.”

  “Indeed. Let us, therefore, confabulate. Who would like to go first? Miss Redshank, you spoke of a kidnapping; Mr. Dart, of a curse; and Mr. Greenwing, of violence, the Talgarths’ moat, and a ring that may appertain to the Lady of Alinor—or perhaps to the Honourable Master Ragnor, if Mr. Dart is correct.”

  I stirred, but she merely smiled and continued: “And, of course, we have a mysterious pie of Ghilousetten origin found abandoned in the middle of Ragnor Bella, which may or may not have anything to do with the rest.”

  “There’s also the Lady,” said Mr. Dart.

  I cleared my throat reluctantly. “Not to mention the cult.”

  Mrs. Etaris closed her eyes but couldn’t quite con
trol her face. “Of course there is, Mr. Greenwing. Who shall begin?”

  “The lady first,” said Mr. Dart, with a glance of outright admiration for Violet. I wondered what had passed while I was in the bakery for his distrust to melt so thoroughly. Mine seemed to have gone the way of the Empire of Astandalas, and be left to relics and wistful ruins.

  Violet’s eyes had widened at Mrs. Etaris’ calm account of the curiosities before us, but she nodded, and folded her hands in her lap, her posture as erect as Mrs. Etaris’. “Thank you, Mr. Dart.” She took a breath. “After convocating from Morrowlea this spring, I went to visit my aunt in Newbury, in Ghilousette.”

  “One moment, Miss Redshank,” said Mrs. Etaris. “Are you yourself from Ghilousette? Your accent does not seem to be Rondelan.”

  “No, I’m not from Rondé. My aunt married a ship’s captain when he came to the port where she lived, and returned with him to his own land. She was an aunt I much admired, and since I had the opportunity I went to see her and my cousin Daphne—Miss Carlin, as you would say here. I arrived there in the first days of summer, and to my surprise found that my cousin had gone missing on her way home from university and my aunt and uncle were utterly distraught.”

  “How unfortunate.”

  “Yes.” Violet hesitated for a moment. In the quiet monosyllable I read a host of painful memories, and felt my anger at Violet dissipate even further. It was hard to keep annoyed with her; it wasn’t her fault that Lark had been so manipulative. And it had been a very grand apology.

  I wondered what it would take to make my uncle kiss my boots.

  Serious enchantments and probably drugs—or at the very least a concussion—after I’d personally and at the greatest peril saved the kingdom from the hordes of evil, I thought, and tried not to smile.

  Violet went on: “My uncle was due to set sail shortly after my arrival. My aunt and I investigated the matter as best we could, but were hampered because—well, you know that in Ghilousette magic is banned?”

  We nodded. She picked her words with evident care. “There are those who believe whole-heartedly in the law, and those who would prefer the old ways but understand the reasons and are loyal to the Duke, and those who prefer the old ways and practice them in secret, with great threat of danger. And then there are those …”

  “Anywhere something desirable is banned,” Mrs. Etaris said thoughtfully, “there are those who make it their business to supply it, with ruinous prices and great danger to all involved.”

  How was that the way Mrs. Etaris’ mind worked? It must be all the romances. I frowned at Black Tulip and The Underwriters of Li Shan Do. It had to be one of those; I’d read The Passion of Madame Anastasiya.

  Mr. Dart nodded. “Do people smuggle magic in Ghilousette? How?”

  Violet shrugged. “I don’t know how it’s done, but I am quite certain my cousin was stolen by those trafficking in illegal magic. Her baked goods were evidently magical to any who tasted them.”

  “What led you to Ragnor Bella?” Mrs. Etaris asked.

  “There’s a Ghilousetten exile here who is involved in the trafficking. I’ve spent the summer tracking leads, and I had thought this trafficker another dead end, until I saw in the square yesterday morning the pie. A stargazy pie. A Ghilousetten pie, and … I believe it was my cousin’s.”

  “Was it magical?” Mr. Dart asked skeptically. “I can’t say I wanted to eat it in the slightest.”

  “I sneezed at it.”

  “You sneeze at everything, though, it’s hardly indicative.”

  “Mrs. Etaris has a theory that my sneezes are a sensitivity to magic.”

  Both Violet and Mr. Dart were unable to contain their mirth at this suggestion. Mrs. Etaris waited until they had done laughing, sipping her coffee with great equanimity, before concisely explaining her reasoning. It seemed unfortunately sound. I ate some gingerbread and tried not to snuffle in an aggrieved fashion.

  Mrs. Etaris set down her cup. “We have, then, a theory of the origin of the pie, but not of its arrival in Ragnor Bella’s town square or of its full significance. Now, Mr. Greenwing—with the gallant assistance of Mr. Dart—has determined that herrings were bought this week by Dominus Gleason, Mr. Shipston, Baron Ragnor’s household, the Talgarths, and Mrs. Landry.”

  I nodded. “So Mr. Kim said.”

  “Mrs. Landry is my sister and I can vouch for both the herring—which she made into a dish from Fiella-by-the-Sea, much to the disgust of her husband and children—and for the fact that the only persons to join her household since last winter were a new kitchen-boy, aged ten, and Mr. Landry’s second cousin once removed from Kingsford-Below, who is assisting her in her parlour café. Miss Featherhaugh is not, I think, your cousin.”

  Mr. Dart smirked. “No; Mr. Greenwing didn’t sneeze on her at all when we had lunch there yesterday.”

  I glanced at him dourly. “Thank you, Mr. Dart.”

  “I’m sure you will be able to turn a nose for magic into a useful thing, like a bloodhound, as soon as you can control it. You will have to be careful, though, or you will lose your growing reputation as the most fashionable—if also most disaster-prone—young man in Ragnor Bella.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Dart.”

  Mrs. Etaris poured us each more coffee. Violet sipped hers, her earlier smiles more serious now. Mrs. Etaris bit her lip thoughtfully. “We can, I think, leave aside the Landries. My sister has never been inclined towards breaking the law, while Mr. Landry is a staunch liberal, and believes in general philanthropy and hard work. Neither of them would have any truck with anything illegal, and even less anything so unfashionable.”

  “We haven’t discussed the ring,” Mr. Dart said. “It’s the Honourable Rag’s, I’m almost certain. And we know his house bought herring.”

  Violet nibbled at her lip. “Do you think he would be party to smuggling?”

  “He went to Tara,” I put in.

  “That doesn’t necessarily mean he’s fallen in with criminal gangs, Mr. Greenwing.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Dart.” I decided not to say that I knew well that the Honourable Rag played high and freely, and that deep as the Baron’s pockets were, the gaming-houses of Orio were infamous. I temporized. “I don’t know what he thinks about practicing magic—but he was certainly sneaking around last night, night crawlers or no night crawlers.”

  Violet gave me a curious glance. I shrugged.

  Mr. Dart shook his head. “I don’t know about his actual views, but I think even he would be careful not to tread on his father’s toes. His father would disinherit him if he found him playing with magic.”

  I looked at him, remembering the purple werelight in the woods.

  Mr. Dart frowned, obviously thinking the same, then went on firmly. “Why, the Baron refused the Earl of the Farry March’s offer for the Honourable Miss, though she wanted to accept it, because the Farry March is too taken-up with magic and the Baron thinks Fiellan should follow Ghilousette.”

  “You run in his circles,” I said, trying not to sound envious.

  “Moreover,” Mr. Dart said, ignoring this, “the Honourable Rag has gone over entirely to manly sports and virtues. He would never be party to something so underhanded as enslavement. If this involved a daring raid across a border, perhaps, though I’m not sure the drinking societies of Tara left him enough wits for planning that.”

  “But the ring—”

  “I think we are getting side-tracked,” Violet interrupted. “I don’t see we have have enough information to know what to make of the ring. Will you pass it to me, Mr. Dart?”

  “Yes,” he said, and slid it across the table to her. He moved awkwardly, using his left hand; his right lay heavily in his lap where he’d placed it. “Here.”

  Violet examined it carefully. “I see why you thought it might be an emblem of the Lady, Mr. Greenwing, from the red flower. Hmm. Yet you believe it this Master Ragnor’s, Mr. Dart?”

  “I’ve seen him wear it this summer.” At my puzz
led glance he added, “Mrs. Etaris showed it to us when you were at the bakery getting gingerbread.”

  “Mm,” I said, and remembered to eat some. Violet smiled impishly at me. I bit my lip to keep from snorting.

  Mrs. Etaris tapped her fingers on the table. “Hmm. Let us set that aside until we can decide on our course of action. Certainly it is suggestive; perhaps too much so. Miss Redshank, have you any questions?”

  Violet was smiling with a strange curl to her lip. She shook her head, setting the ring next to the coffee pot. “No. What of the others who bought herring?”

  “We have only been able to speak to Mr. Shipston. He is a Ghilousetten physicker, who claims to have been a metal-wizard, now in exile, though given that Mr. Greenwing was affected only by the cogswork on his wall, perhaps not much of one. He was most distressed at the sight of the pie, and threw us out of his house.” She paused. “He also mentioned a woman in his household by the name of Miranda, whom none of us had ever heard tell of before.”

  “Daphne!”

  “Perhaps. It is certainly most suggestive. But Dominus Gleason claims to be out of town, when he is not. Mr. Greenwing spoke to him yesterday, and my daughter saw him this morning rushing along the river-path when she was collecting the eggs. He is clearly keeping something a secret.”

  We all took a break to eat gingerbread. The sounds of the market came through the front wall, muffled but pleasant. All those people out there with their own lives, in quiet backwater Ragnor Bella—the dullest town in Rondé—and some of them were certainly cultists. I shuddered at the sudden vision of bloody sacrifice and orgiastic dancing.

  “You shiver, Mr. Greenwing,” Mrs. Etaris said. “You do seem to have picked up a cold last night.”

  “It’s not that. Mr. Dart and I saw something … very disagreeable last night.”

  He snorted, and stroked his marble hand awkwardly. “The Lady knows.”

  “If it was the Lady.”

  “It was,” he replied firmly.

  Mrs. Etaris stared at him. “Whatever were you doing last night? Not simply carousing at the Green Dragon, as I had presumed?”