The Heartreader's Secret

by Kate McinTyre

  Chris watched go, then turned, shaking his head hard and clearing his throat. “So,” he said. “You’re driving, then?”

  Olivia stood, starting up the road to Miller Orchards, a far-away look on her face and a little stitch between her eyebrows. She didn’t seem to notice as he stepped closer.

  “Olivia?”

  She shook her head faintly. “Gods, what are the odds? I’d rather entirely forgotten.”

  “About what?”

  She twisted her head about to fix him with a grim, tight sort of smile. “The Harvest Festival, of course. The crown jewel of Miller Orchards and the most important night of the year up in these parts! Hah. How strange, that I didn’t even think…” She shook her head again, more firmly. “Well, Mother is going to be absolutely furious. Or worse, see it as some sort of sign that I’ve relented and am here to claim my birthright. How blasted inconvenient.”

  Chris shifted uneasily from foot to foot, adjusting his grip on their bags. “Is… is it going to be… ah, well, a problem?”

  Olivia blinked and seemed to haul herself back to the moment. She planted hands on her hips and looked about, eyes focusing on one of the two flies. “No. No problem at all.” She started toward the conveyances with purpose, flicking her wrist to summon him to her side.

  He loaded their bags into the compartment at the base of the fly while Olivia paid the attendant and then untethered the hippogryph, chirping softly to it. Chris had actually never seen a carriage like this. How did it balance itself? He wasn’t sure how it didn’t flip over, especially with the two giant wheels lacking any distinctive brown glow. He resolved not to ask; Olivia would never let it go. He already foresaw the narrative she was writing in her head, casting herself as a savvy, culture-hopping savant, and him as a soft, shallow city boy.

  He climbed up onto the seat, settling himself beside Olivia, who was untangling the reins. He felt quite unsteady, being up so high. If he pitched forward from a quick stop, he thought he’d fall straight down. It was different than riding in the front of the police car with Maris, that was for certain.

  “I can’t believe you can’t drive,” Olivia said, shooting him a wicked little smile. “Didn’t you say your carriage house has only been empty since you were fifteen?”

  Chris ducked his head, heat in his cheeks. “We always had a driver,” he admitted.

  Olivia cackled. She snapped the reins over the hippogryph’s mottled, dun back, and the beast started off. They blew past the creaking, squealing wrought iron signs, heading up the swell of the hill toward Miller Orchards.

  Driving on the dirt road was completely different from cobbles. At first, it was merely uncomfortable, but then Olivia shot him a fanged grin and snapped the reins again, and Chris found himself bouncing about in the seat like a bloody turnip in a box. He grabbed the side of the car to hold himself down, gasping for air.

  “I—” he gulped. They truly, logically, could not be going that fast, and yet it felt like more speed than even the train had put out. “Do you really think this speed is necessary?”

  “Yes!” Olivia cried. She was grinning wildly, and she pulled the reins all into one hand. With the other, she reached up, tossed off her bonnet, and shook her long, straight blonde hair out behind her. “Goodness, I’ve missed this! I can’t do it in the dead of winter!”

  “Why not a horse?” Chris asked. He had to speak quite loudly. The wind rushed past them. It felt extremely fast. Goodness.

  “A hippogryph’s talons have much better grip than a horse’s hooves!” Olivia replied. She seemed eager and excited to show off all the knowledge she had that he didn’t. “And they have a lower centre of balance! They’re perfect for taking a fly on dirt roads like this! Country living, Christopher!”

  Chris lodged himself back against the seat, taking deep breaths to try and steady his nerves. He focused on Olivia instead of looking down at the blurring road. Her grin was manic and her eyes sparkling, and Chris realized that it was the most animated he’d ever seen her without any scent of death to catch her interest. Despite his ongoing state of terror, a smile pulled at his own lips in unconscious echo.

  When they crested the swell of the hill, Olivia pulled back on the reins, and Chris sat up in the seat.

  His heart skipped a beat.

  The road continued in a perfectly straight line, flanked by stately rows of alder trees, their leaves a rich, sunny yellow. Beyond the trees, the ground dipped into low valleys on both sides, hemmed in by dense, primordial forest like nothing he’d ever seen in Darrington, not even in the parks. And straight ahead, at the end of the long, long road, a sprawling, stately country manor perched like a drake over a clutch of eggs.

  It was like something from a painting.

  Olivia shot him a glance. “Nothing to say?”

  “It’s beautiful.” It was all he could say.

  “I suppose it is,” Olivia agreed. She sounded pleased despite herself. “And believe me, there’s more to see. You wouldn’t believe how many acres of apple trees we own!”

  In truth, Chris couldn’t imagine how she left it. How she actively rejected it. His inheritance, the legacy of the Buckley family, was an influence, respect, and a predisposition for strong spiritbinding. All of it was gone. But hers… hers was still here and waiting for her. Surely this place was in her bones and blood the way the Buckley estate was in his. How could she just walk away from that?

  Olivia seemed to read his silence. “Whatever you’re thinking,” she said, and her voice had lost its girlish glee, “stop it. I walked away from this place for a reason.” She winced. “A reason you’re about to meet.”

  At the thought of being introduced, at long last, to the formidable Elouise Faraday, Chris’s heart leapt into his mouth. There was so much on his mind—the countryside, the train, Margaret, William—he’d let himself forget his excitement. Missus Faraday was more than just Olivia’s mother, with whom she did not get along. She was also the reason Rosie and Rachel were safe here, tucked away from the world, and now, finally, at arm’s reach.

  Olivia slapped the reins again, and the fly leapt downhill.

  A stately elderly man was waiting for them when Olivia reined in the hippogryph at the gate. She threw the reins to one side and leapt down from the fly, right in front of him.

  He merely blinked.

  “Miss Olivia,” he said. “You’re two months early for Solstice. Have you finally chosen to visit us at Harvest?” He sounded, at most, mildly bemused.

  “Hullo, Walter!” Olivia chirped as Chris slid down from the fly. There was no step to aid departure. How had Olivia managed it so effortlessly in bloody skirts? “This nag and her conveyance need to be returned to the station if you don’t mind putting Roger on—” Her voice faltered. “Oh. That’s right. I’m here because Roger is dead. I’d… hm.”

  “Last week, miss.”

  “Yes, that’s… hm. Hm.” She stood very still for a moment and then shook her head. “Well, it’s very strange, isn’t it, Walter? Roger’s been in the stable since he was not much older than I, and now he’s just gone?”

  Chris opened the fly’s hatch and began removing their bags. He tried to keep his motions small and quiet, not wanting to disrupt the fascinating dialogue.

  “Yes, Miss Olivia. An unfortunate side effect of death.”

  “Don’t be smart with me, now, Walter.”

  “Of course, Miss Olivia.”

  “I suppose it all seemed very much less… real, from the city. Like Roger was hanged in the stable, and yet still, of course, he would be here to saddle Alouette for me? Quite irrational. How strange. Hmm. Well, I… can whoever has taken his place handle this for me?” She indicated vaguely back in the direction of the fly, and Chris fastened the hatch.

  “That would be the young Miss Mabelle, Miss Olivia.”

  “Goodness, really? So young!”

  “She insisted she be given the chance, Miss.”

  Olivia cocked her head and then shrugged. “We
ll, fair enough. She’s got the knack for it. She at least deserves the shot at taking her father’s place before categorization doubtless wrecks her prospects. Very well, then, have Mabelle handle this, won’t you? And bring our bags in?”

  “Of course, miss.”

  “Excellent. All right, then. Come along, Christopher.” She trotted off toward the doors to the estate, and Chris, flushing, and feeling quite out of place, hurried along after her. Halfway there, she stopped and turned. “Oh,” she said. “Right. Christopher, this is Walter Rimpleton, our butler. Walter, this is Christopher Buckley, my assistant.”

  Introductions made things so much easier to deal with. Chris extended a hand, which the butler shook with a small, professional smile. “Mister Buckley.” He inclined his head graciously. “Happy Harvest, sir.” Without waiting for a response, he moved off toward their bags.

  “Are you sure he should carry our things?” Chris asked quietly. Mister Rimpleton certainly seemed a solid, straight-backed sort of fellow, but he had to be at least seventy years old.

  Olivia laughed, stopping before polished oaken doors carved with flowering apple trees. “Well,” she said. “You can try and wrestle him for the privilege, but I suspect he’ll win.” He thought she was reaching for the brass knockers, but instead, she threw open the doors. Despite their weight and age, the hinges were well oiled; the doors banged against the far walls with an echoing crash. “Oh, Mother!” Olivia sang, sweeping into the hall.

  Voices and movement came from inside the estate. Chris’s stomach knotted itself up, and his heart knocked against his ribs. Rosemary was here. She and Rachel were both close enough that if he raised his voice and shouted for them, they might hear him. The thought was dizzying, and he focused on the foyer to distract himself.

  Dual staircases leading to an upper landing framed the room, each ending back in the front hall at doorways that showed long hallways extending far to either side into the estate. In some ways, it reminded him of his time at the val Daren estate, in that it was all polished wood and brown, earthy tones. But where the val Daren foyer had been done in mahogany and ebony imported at great cost from the savage continent, Olivia’s legacy was all local, rustic materials, oak and ash, and elm. Ceiling beams hung, exposed, two stories up, like the ribs of some great beast. The rugs and trappings were all crocheted or woven. The foyer gave the impression of a cozy hunting lodge, all natural and unpolished.

  The chandelier hanging from one of the ceiling beams had only three round glass orbs suspended from it. With the bright afternoon sunlight streaming through the windows, they weren’t illuminated. But each glowed a faint orange-red. It was the first sign of spiritglow he’d witnessed since getting off the train.

  “Maerwald’s sigh… Chris?”

  Heart in his mouth, he turned.

  Rosemary stood framed in one of the doorways. From the blotchy spots of colour high on her cheeks, it seemed likely that she’d come at a run. That was so like her. Never any concern for propriety at all.

  “Rosie.” He couldn’t stop examining her. She was so… tall. And slender! She’d always been a chubby girl, but no one would ever guess, now. In her simple but well-tailored white and grey linen dress, she hardly looked like the spoiled, frilly child he’d raised in her simple but well-tailored white and grey linen dress. He smiled, feeling tears prickling at the back of his eyes. “My word, I swear you’ve sprouted another three inches since I saw you this summer! You must be as tall as Miss Albany, now.”

  His sister opened her mouth and then shut it. She nodded. “Yes, I’m about that,” she agreed. She smiled.

  Was it his imagination, or did it not quite reach her eyes?

  She shook her head. “What are you doing here? Is… is it for Harvest?” A little furrow appeared between her brows. They were as dark as ever but seemed shaped differently. Was she plucking them into elegant little arches? She seemed too young for that, still. “And… Miss Faraday?”

  “Hullo, Rosemary,” Olivia said, pulling off her leather gloves one finger at a time. “I believe this is only our second time ever meeting. Isn’t that odd, considering how entwined our lives are?”

  “Missus Faraday didn’t say that you were coming,” Rosemary said. The furrow deepened.

  “Well.” Olivia tilted her head like a bird. “That’s because she doesn’t know. Yet. Or, well, she didn’t. I suspect my hollering clued her in on the situation rather quickly.”

  “My word,” an unfamiliar voice called from somewhere back in the belly of the estate. “Is that you, Livvie?”

  “You see?” Olivia sighed and shook her head. “Ah, well. Let’s get this over with, shall we?”

  Rosemary seemed to make up her mind about something. Her smile gained some footing, and a moment later, she was wrapping her arms around Chris and—Gods, the top of her head came all the way up to his nose, now. Her reticence seemed to melt away, and he pulled her into a hug of his own. Her hair smelled like the autumn country wind they’d just come in out of.

  “I can’t believe how grown up you look,” Chris murmured against her tousled curls.

  “I can’t believe you’re here,” Rosie replied, and he couldn’t tell whether her tone was joy or distress or just shock.

  He didn’t have time to examine it. Over his sister’s head, Elouise Faraday swept into the hall.

  Even if she hadn’t immediately snapped to attention, fixed her eyes on her daughter and barked “Olivia Faraday, explain yourself!” he would have known it was her. Missus Faraday was as tiny as Olivia, both in stature and build. Familiar ice-chip eyes looked out of a regal, lined face, and while it was impossible to tell what colour her snow-white hair had been in her youth, it hung around her shoulders as fine and ruler-straight as Olivia’s ever had. The elder Faraday had a rounder chin, a wider nose, less prominent cheekbones, and a bit of meat on her hips and bosom, but otherwise? Missus Faraday could have been a preview of her daughter in twenty-five years.

  “Hullo, Mother!” Olivia’s grin split her face so widely Chris thought the top of her head might roll off. “Goodness, it’s been ages since I saw you without the pale of winter in your skin. You actually look rather healthy! I suppose you’re not so near to death as I’d imagined.”

  “And it’s a fine thing, too,” Missus Faraday snapped. There was no answering smile on her face, and her eyes glittered, cold as the ice they evoked. “Eadwyr, in all her wisdom, knows I won’t have an heir to pass any of this down to when I go.”

  Olivia clasped her hands delightedly. “Oh, just listen! I’m glad you’re finally swearing by the Crone, Mummy Dearest. It’s sad, watching a fragile old thing like you unwilling to accept her age!”

  “Why are you here? You’ve not paid a whit of attention to the Harvest Festival since you left! You can’t expect me to believe that it suddenly matters to you. That any of this does.” Missus Faraday’s voice was such a whip crack of severity that it sliced through Olivia’s levity in an instant.

  Something twitched at Olivia’s lips. Chris didn’t think that it was a smile. “It’s good to see you, too,” she said. Each word was hurled half-heartedly, like a series of dull blades not really meant to hit their mark. “I’m here on business.”

  “Ah, and there it is. Not Miller business, I assume.”

  “You assume correctly. A case! Officer Geoffries contacted my supervisor at the Darrington police. He thought that someone who knew the estate would be best to look into the matter of poor Roger’s passing. I could hardly turn up the opportunity to pay a visit to my dear old mum.”

  Rosemary gasped, stepping back out of Chris’s arms and looking up at him with blue eyes so big and guileless he couldn’t help but remember her in her crib. “You’re here for Mister Greene?”

  Missus Faraday’s eyes widened—just slightly, but enough that Chris could tell she was caught off her guard. “Nonsense. Roger killed himself.”

  “We think perhaps not,” Olivia replied. “There were some suspicious flags thrown up.
The Queen’s Police thought it best that an investigator take a look at the situation.” One of her canines glittered as she smiled. “A Deathsniffer.”

  “What kind of flags?” Rosemary pressed, taking another step out of Chris’s arms. She glanced back and forth between Chris and Olivia. “Is this about the horses?”

  Olivia didn’t seem to notice. Missus Faraday said nothing, but her jaw bulged, cold eyes boring into her daughter. Rosie folded her lips. Chris swallowed hard, wanting the moment to pass so that he could actually speak to his sister.

  “Officer Geoffries couldn’t have come himself?” Missus Faraday asked at long last.

  “I’m sure he didn’t want to, Mother.” Olivia’s smile was tight and flinty. “You’ve spent fifteen years making your feelings on police officers very clear.”

  “And yet, apparently my feelings for you were not clear enough.”

  Olivia flinched slightly. And then she smiled toothily. “Charming,” she pronounced and indicated Chris. “This is my assistant,” she said, pretending as if she hadn’t just been directly insulted. “Mister—”

  “Christopher Buckley, yes,” Missus Faraday said in a voice devoid of inflection. “I hardly need a Deathsniffer to draw obvious conclusions. My ward was wrapped around him most affectionately, and they rather share a chin.”

  “Well. Good, then. No potential miscommunication. Walter’s bringing in our things.” Olivia turned on her heel as if she’d flounce off, and Chris felt a stab of anxiety (should he follow her? he was her assistant, but this was her home, but what if she required him, but what if she was going to change her dress?) that was very short-lived.