Philippa laid down her napkin. “It must be. There is no other Lord Islington as yet.” She pushed back her chair and stood up. “Thank you, Matron. Is he in the foyer?”
“I put his lordship in the Headmistress’s office,” Matron said. “I didn’t feel he would wish to come into the dining hall.” She directed this statement to Margareth, who nodded. “I ordered coffee for him and asked him if he had breakfasted. He said he had.” She turned and bustled away. Philippa followed.
In Margareth’s office, she found her brother standing before the tall window behind the desk. He had opened the heavy drapes and stood looking out into the cold gray morning. When the door clicked behind Philippa, he turned.
“Philippa. It’s been a very long time since we’ve seen you at Islington House.”
“Good morning, Meredith.” Philippa walked with deliberate steps toward the desk and stood facing her brother across its mahogany expanse. She laid her fingertips on the leather-bound genealogy that lay on it, mimicking Margareth’s habitual gesture. “I do apologize for not coming for Erdlin. I was otherwise occupied.”
“Yes, Jessica told me you had sent a note.”
“And how is Jessica?” Philippa asked. She hated small talk, but she needed a moment to assess Meredith’s mood, to try to guess why he was here. He wanted something, naturally. There was not the slightest chance he had come merely from filial affection. None had ever existed between them.
Meredith’s cool blue eyes told her nothing. The features which on herself looked bony and plain were striking on Meredith. He had always been a handsome man, but now, approaching middle age, the slight silvering of his red hair had added a distinguished air. He carried himself with confidence, even arrogance.
He had high hopes for the advancement of the Islingtons, for more power and more profit from their ventures. Her refusal to be his liaison with Duke Frederick, when she was still flying for the Ducal Palace,
had infuriated him.
“Jessica is well,” Meredith said. “And our daughters thrive.”
“I am glad to hear it.”
“You’re making a great mistake, Philippa.”
Philippa said dryly, “Why, Meredith, because I’m glad your family is well?”
“Don’t be a fool,” he said. He left the window and came to lean on the high back of Margareth’s chair.
“Your mistake is in taking Lord Francis’s part against that of the Duke.”
“Oh, by Kalla’s heels, Meredith! Surely that’s not why you’re here?”
“That is exactly why I’m here,” her brother answered. “This is our chance to mend the relationship of Islington House and Fleckham House. I won’t stand by and see you destroy it.”
“It’s you playing the fool, Meredith.” Philippa drew her gloves from her belt and slapped them into one palm. “You can’t have been paying attention! Duke William’s tenure is likely to be a short one. Where will you be if he’s deposed?”
“Deposed?” Meredith gave an incredulous laugh. “Where do you come up with such ideas? His Grace settled the issue of Onmarin in the Council. What gives you and Francis the right to gainsay him?”
“William didn’t settle the issue.” Anger roughened Philippa’s voice. “He ignored it.”
“He is the Duke, and it falls to him to make these decisions.”
“Or not make them. And how, pray tell, do you think there is anything I could do that would improve relations with William?”
“Duke William, Philippa. Show him the respect he’s due.”
“When he earns it, I will.”
Meredith drew himself up very straight and looked down his nose at her. She recognized the posture.
She had the same habit.
“Philippa,” he said, “I want you to refuse Lord Francis’s plan. Decline the Klee girl, and turn your back on this ridiculous scheme.”
Philippa laid her palm flat on the book of the bloodlines, feeling its bulk and substance beneath her hand.
She narrowed her eyes at her brother. “You,” she said bitingly, “cannot give me orders. I am a horsemistress , Meredith.”
“You are an Islington, and I am the head of our house. You owe me loyalty.”
Now Philippa did laugh, though there was little mirth in it. “Loyalty,” she said sourly. “You mean, such as the loyalty you always showed to me when I was a girl?”
Meredith’s lips pulled down. “I was young, Philippa.”
“I was sixteen. And you laughed at me, you and William. You have daughters now, Meredith. Would you like them to have that experience?”
His eyes flickered away from her. He turned back to the window, and his posture softened a little. “I’m sorry about that,” he said. “It was cruel.”
“Ours was always a cruel family,” Philippa said. “I suppose you should not bear all the blame. And it did work out for me, after all. Duke Frederick not only bonded me to Sunny, but he became the affectionate father our own never was.”
A silence stretched between them. Philippa closed her eyes for a moment, tasting the comforting scents of leather and wax and lamp oil. There was also, of course, the omnipresent smell of horses in this room, as in every room at the Academy. She should explain to Meredith how much she loved this life, how little she regretted that other life that might have been.
She opened her eyes, and opened her mouth to tell him, but he forestalled her, turning abruptly to face her. “None of that matters now, Philippa. What matters is the future. And William can help or hinder our fortunes.”
“Duke William,” Philippa said slyly.
Meredith’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t take part in this, Philippa. It’s madness.”
“Madness.” Philippa lowered her voice. “Meredith, listen. In all truth, I fear for William’s sanity. You and I have known him since childhood, and he is much changed recently.”
“That’s a treasonous remark,” Meredith said.
“Some would say abandoning two young citizens to the barbarians is treason.”
“That’s not a decision for us to make. I don’t want you involved, Philippa. I order you.”
“Order me? I’m a horsemistress of Oc, Meredith. I take orders from no man.”
“Except the Duke.”
She shrugged. “Even the Duke. He has to answer to the Council Lords, and that is by no means a foregone conclusion in this instance. The Academy—and Francis, I should point out—have supporters in the Council.”
“Damn you, Philippa! I swear—”
“Swear away, Meredith. It will do you no good.”
FRANCISand Rys were to leave a day before Philippa. As she would be flying, her journey would be swifter than theirs. Lord and Lady Beeth had offered a carriage for the two men and their servants.
Francis had directed his man not even to unpack, other than what was needed immediately, and so there was nothing for him to do but wait for the Beeth carriage. He was standing in the foyer of the Academy Hall, gazing at the paintings of the winged horses that hung on its walls. One, in particular, interested him.
It was a lean, muscular brown horse, painted with its wings extended over a snowy landscape, no tack or rider to obscure its sleek lines, the depth of its chest, the neat cut of its hooves.
“He was one of the founders of the Ocmarin line.”
Francis turned his head at the sound of Philippa’s voice. She had come to stand beside him, her riding boots making almost no sound on the tiled floor. “He’s beautiful,” he said.
“They say he was. And he threw nothing but winged foals,” she told him.
“What was his name?”
“Seraph,” she said. “One of our girls—Larkyn Hamley—flies a colt named for him. Her horse is named Black Seraph, in honor of his forebear. Black Seraph is a good bit smaller than his ancestor, though, I think.”
“Larkyn? That’s an unusual name, is it not?”
Philippa’s lips pursed. “She is an unusual girl,” she said in a dry tone. “With an u
nusual history. And, Francis . . .”
“What is it, Philippa? It’s not like you to hesitate.”
“I don’t know how much your brother has told you of the events of the past year.”
Francis turned away from the painting and faced Philippa. Her features were drawn with fatigue and tension. He supposed his own were no better. He hated to admit it, even to himself, but he was afraid of what was coming in Aeskland. He cleared his throat. “William and I have not corresponded on anything but official business,” he said. “Nor have we spoken privately since my father died.”
“Have you heard from your sister?”
“No. My father’s old steward tells me she’s in seclusion, residing with a family in an outlying district.”
“The family is called Hamley,” Philippa said bluntly.
“Hamley? The same name as your student?”
“The very family,” Philippa answered. “The Hamleys of Deeping Farm, the Uplands.”
“How did such a coincidence come about?”
“It’s a long story, Francis, but coincidence has no part of it. There is still a mystery to be solved, but your sister is unable to speak.”
Francis frowned. “She could have written to me, surely. If she needed help . . .”
“I do not wish to interfere in your family’s affairs,” Philippa said. She glanced around, and Francis followed her gaze. The foyer was empty. Margareth was in her office, and the instructors and students were in the paddocks.
Francis put a hand under Philippa’s elbow and led her to one of the long benches opposite the windows.
“Tell me, Philippa,” he said. “I never doubt you have only our best interests at heart.”
Her mouth twisted. “Well, yours at least.”
“Tell me.”
Philippa had been right. It was a long story, of intrigue, of an illegitimate child, of deceit and sacrifice.
Francis dropped his head, listening, trying to imagine his pretty, prideful sister banished to an Uplands village, cared for through a traumatic pregnancy by a village witchwoman, residing in the end in a sympathetic farmer’s house.
“Brye Hamley,” Philippa finished at last, “is a man of honor, the sort of man Oc can be most proud of.
William now has two reasons to hate him and to threaten to confiscate the lands the Hamleys have held for centuries.”
“Two reasons.”
“I fear so.” Philippa had pulled her gloves from her belt, and was creasing them in her fingers. “William is obsessed with Black Seraph, Larkyn’s winged horse. He was furious when he found she had bonded with the foal, and he tried once to take him from her. But he fears what Pamella might tell the Hamleys should she begin to speak again.”
“Who is the father of her child?” Francis asked. His heart weighed heavy in his breast. He knew how such a thing must have wounded his father, and he understood also that his mother would never allow Pamella to return to Osham with a bastard brat at her knee. Poor Pamella! It seemed her life was ruined, in more ways than one.
“Do you know, Francis,” Philippa said slowly, “that is something she will not reveal. The secret seems to weigh upon her more than any other.”
“She can write, surely?”
“Yes,” Philippa answered. “But all she has written is the name of her son, so that we would know what to call him. Brandon.”
“Brandon,” Francis mused. “We had an uncle by that name, and a great-great-grandfather. Pamella remembered.”
“He looks just like you and William,” Philippa said. “A true Fleckham.” Her eyes softened, and Francis wondered what it must be like for her, and for all the horsemistresses. If their horses lived out their full span, the women were too old to have children by the time they lost their bondmates. He had no children himself, but he had both time and freedom to have a family. The bonded flyers had no choice in the matter.
“I wish I could see Pamella while I’m here.”
“You can, Francis. When we return from Aeskland, you can go to the Uplands. The Hamleys will welcome you. You’ll like them.”
Francis cast her a surreptitious glance. Something changed in her voice when she spoke the Hamley name, and that softness stayed in her eyes. It was unlike Philippa to be sentimental. Perhaps it was the child Brandon that caused her to have such feelings. Or perhaps it was affection for the girl, her student.
“Well, now.” Philippa stood up abruptly and brushed her hands together as if to rid herself of unnecessary emotions. “You have preparations to make, no doubt. Have you breakfasted? Do you need anything?”
He was about to explain the way he had spent the morning when one of the students burst through a door on the floor above the foyer and came hurrying down the wide staircase. Philippa looked up, and said,
“Hester? Whatever is the matter?”
Francis recognized the tall girl as the daughter of the Beeths. She reached the bottom of the stair and whirled to face Philippa, one hand on the newel post. “Mistress Winter,” she panted. “Have you seen Black? She missed breakfast, and now she’s missed our Points drill. Mistress Star is furious, and I’m worried. I’ve looked in the library, in the classroom, on the sleeping porch. I can’t find her anywhere!”
PHILIPPApressed the palms of her hands against her eyes. Curse the girl! Were there not enough problems without Larkyn taking it into her head that she must fly away, without telling anyone, without any warning or message?
It had taken only moments for Francis to explain that he had seen someone circling the return paddock when he went for an early walk that morning. It must have been Larkyn.
Philippa’s stomach roiled with tension. Margareth’s patience was already sorely tested by Larkyn’s various escapades, and Suzanne Star would have every right to censure the child for missing her drill. If
she didn’t return quickly, with appropriate apologies, she would be back to practicing her drills on the wingless pony and repeating her first-year studies.
“How long ago did this happen, Francis?” Philippa asked.
“No one else was about yet,” he said. “Except the stable-girl. I was surprised to see someone flying so early, and I stood at the end of the paddock to watch her.”
Hester said, “I’ll go after her, Mistress Winter.”
“Go where, Hester?” rapped Philippa. “You have no idea where she is. And I am not going to send one fool of a girl after another!”
Hester subsided, her face reddening. Philippa regretted her sharpness, but the pressure of the upcoming mission and the utter lack of time to resolve the current crisis were simply too much. “I’ll go, Hester,” she said. “I’ll go immediately, and see if I can guess where she’s got to. You see to Lord Francis’s needs, will you?”
“Yes, Mistress Winter. And I’ll tell Erna to saddle Winter Sunset for you.”
Philippa nodded. “Thank you. I’m going to go change into my winter habit. It will be cold aloft.”
“I hope Black wore hers,” Hester said, as she turned to leave.
“Indeed,” Philippa said. Her neck began to ache. “And I hope the snow doesn’t return.”
TEN
PHILIPPAturned Sunny to face down the flight paddock. In the early morning hours, the sky had been a clear, cold blue, but clouds had rolled in from the mountains, obscuring the low hills to the west, erasing the glitter of the thin fall of snow from the night before. Her heart sank.
“We’d better hurry, Sunny,” she said. “And not to get too far from home.”
Sunny tossed her head and blew plumes of frost. When Philippa loosened her rein, she broke into a brisk canter as if she understood the urgency. She sped to the hand gallop and launched herself well before the end of the paddock. The grass was crisp and a little slippery beneath her hooves, but she ascended sharply, her great scarlet wings driving them upward as surely as Philippa might have climbed stairs.
Flying was good in cold weather, the horses’ wings more efficient. Even in rainy weather, the win
ged horses could fly long distances, no matter how sodden their manes and tails became, how wet and miserable their riders. But snow was another issue altogether.
Winter birds—the goldfinches and siskins—flew easily through drifts of snow, though Philippa believed they preferred to huddle in the inner branches of the spruce and pine that protected them in the worst weather. She and Sunny had watched from the warm security of the stables more than once, envious of the birds in this one thing. Perhaps, Philippa thought, if Sunny’s wings were feathered rather than membranous, she, too, could fly through falling snow.
Philippa and Sunny had been caught in a sudden snowstorm once, flying to Crossmount for Duke Frederick. That duchy lay south and west of Oc, beyond the mountains, and the season had been early spring. An unseasonable storm blew into the pass without warning, and Philippa had watched with alarm as the expanse of membrane between the ribs of Sunny’s wings filled with snow. Her wings, warm with exertion, melted the snowflakes almost immediately, but as the storm intensified, more snow fell on the chill wetness to create a sort of white mud.
As Sunny’s wings chilled under the weight of the snow, the rhythm of her wingbeats faltered. She struggled, her effort evident in the ripple of the muscles across her chest and down her ribs. Philippa shivered with cold and fear as she did her best to guide Sunny down through the storm. She could only hope there would be a place to come to ground.
They had made a precipitous descent through fluttering snowflakes and emerged from the clouds to find themselves above a grassy meadow just where the pass opened into the plains of Crossmount. The grass was barely misted with white, the snow already melting on the spring-warmed ground. Skeptic though she was, once Sunny had safely touched down, Philippa thanked the horse goddess with all her soul. She
rubbed Sunny’s wings dry and walked her until they were both warm again. Her hands trembled for an hour afterward, and she promised herself she would never again have such an experience.
But now Larkyn was aloft somewhere, with a snowstorm coming, and no experience of bad weather.
Philippa turned Sunny to the west. The air was ominously still. Philippa peered ahead, but as the storm swept eastward, visibility was growing worse by the moment. She twisted in her saddle to look back toward Osham, wondering if Larkyn and Seraph might have turned that way. If so, Philippa had no idea where to look for her. Indeed, searching for one pair of flyers who had left the Academy hours ago was an impossible challenge. They could be anywhere.
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