The Heartreader's Secret

by Kate McinTyre

  She furrowed her brow at him. It cracked the enamel a bit, which helped. “What?” she asked, her voice sharp. “I thought you, at least, would approve?”

  It isn’t you, he wanted to say, but he knew better. She wouldn’t appreciate the unsolicited advice, and he couldn’t help but find something about the thought… distasteful, though he couldn’t place why. Just that it sounded like the sort of thing Olivia, herself would roll her eyes at if he said it about someone else.

  “You look like a fashion plate,” he said, instead of something more editorial.

  She made a face, but he thought it was meant in a good way. She spread her skirts wide and dipped a perfect curtsy. “I’m making an effort to choose my battles,” she said ruefully. “If Mother and I fire the first volley over proper dinnerwear, Eadwyr only knows where I’ll find the ammunition for the sallies that matter.”

  Chris smiled. Olivia did, too, though she sighed along with it. “Come along, then,” she said, offering him an arm as though she were the gentleman escorting him down to dinner.

  But he took it anyway.

  “Apparently,” she said once they were in the hall and Chris’s rooms were shut up behind them, “there are some particulars at play. I’d best go over them quick before we’re seated and make a muck of the whole affair.”

  “I… what sort of….?”

  “Well, foremost, the young woman my mother is keeping as ward is not Rosemary Buckley, binding wizard extraordinaire, but rather Rosaline Bramley—after the apple, you see?” Olivia made a face. “Very creative, mother. Ugh. Anyway. Miss Bramley is here with her governess, one Miss Rachel Albright. Rosaline is the third cousin of an Assemblyman from Vernella. The specific details will never come up because no one north of Cardinalia actually knows anything about the capital. Rosem—Rosie, as she calls herself, to prevent errors like that one—could talk about how her cousin juggles fish for the queen, and it would seem entirely quite likely to these provincial idiots.”

  Chris’s head was already reeling from this information—Rosie had an… alias?—and so he focused in on something small. “And here you act like a proud country-type and tease me for my city ways.”

  “I,” Olivia pronounced, “am amphibious. I can do either, and therefore it is my Gods-given right to mock those less adaptive than I.”

  “I feel as though I missed that particular scripture.”

  “Hush, we both know you’re as godless a heathen as I. Now. You might be wondering how the people who live in the guest house relate to this? Simple enough. We don’t know much of anything about them. Some Lowry-types, renting out the building to conduct some experiments. They’re a couple of odd ducks, but they keep to themselves, are self-sufficient back there, and we like that just fine.”

  Chris took a moment to go over these details in his mind, breathing deep to inhale the scents of the meal. They must be quite close to the dining room and kitchen. “I’m not sure I understand,” he said eventually. “Rosie and I… we greeted one another at the front door. Your mother acknowledged our relationship.” As voices reached his ears, he dropped his volume. “Just who, exactly, is this charade for?”

  Olivia lowered her voice as well. “A very good question, Christopher. As I said half a year ago when I first made this offer… the staff and family here at Miller are quite universally insular and trustworthy. Discretion, certainly, makes sense in that context, but aliases? False backstories? Goodness. Who are we hiding from?”

  And as she spoke, it occurred to Chris that he didn’t recognize the loudest of the conversationalists—a toff, arrogant male voice that dripped with superiority. “As you can see,” it said, “I have done my research, Missus Faraday.”

  “The worst creature of all. Guests,” Olivia said, shuddering with great exaggeration, and then they were in the dining room.

  All eyes raised to watch them enter.

  There was Missus Faraday—Elouise, he reminded himself—sitting at the head of the table. And there, shockingly reserved as she inclined her head and murmured “Good evening, sir, Miss Faraday,” was his sister. The mysterious guest, dressed in old-fashioned coattails and an outdated top hat, gave them a peevish look. Chris took them all in and dismissed them, even Rosie, in half a blink, because his attention flew to the face he’d been looking for around every corner since they’d arrived.

  Rachel Albany looked like an entirely different woman.

  She wore her thick chestnut hair gibson roll style, luscious under-rolled curls nestled below her ears and at the nape of her neck. Without her hair pulled back in her usual tight bun, her features were soft and her skin seemed to glow beneath the warm salamander light. Her country gown was simple, but not unflattering. It didn’t draw undue attention to the straight lines of her slender figure the way that her terrible store-bought button dresses did, and its soft blue brought out cool undertones in her colouring. The cut brought just enough attention to the long, elegant line of her swan-like neck. She didn’t look like a staid, over-buttoned matron. Or the painted beauty he’d seen the night of Piffleman’s Gala House. What Chris saw in her now was something very much like the face he’d glimpsed as they’d played cribbage into the early hours after that night. Soft, and simple, and honest, and lovely.

  Her gaze met his. He knew she felt his attention on her, and he pushed down the instinct to sand off the corners of the warmth he felt. Her eyes widened, and her fingers shook a bit as she brushed back a loose strand of hair.

  Rosie hadn’t told her he was here.

  The weight of the charade suddenly seemed crushing. If Rosie wasn’t his sister, then he had no reason to know Rachel. The things he wanted to say were stuck on the back of his tongue, choking him. He needed to say so many things, things he should have said after the Piffleman’s Gala House, months ago, but the guest at the table acted as a gag order.

  He needed to be alone with her.

  She smiled tremulously at him, and his heart burst into a furious gallop.

  Elouise Faraday sniffed. “You look quite fine, Livvie,” she declared.

  Olivia inclined her head, a sour smile twisting her lips. “Do I? I’m pleased to have passed muster, Mother. You’re too kind.”

  “That’s enough of that. Take a seat, dear.”

  The side of the table closest to them was empty. Olivia strode confidently forward and took a seat beside her mother and across from Rosie. That left Chris between Olivia and the stranger… and looking into Rachel Albany’s eyes.

  While he unfolded his napkin and laid it in his lap, painfully aware of his sister’s keeper’s eyes on him, Olivia reached for a platter and began helping herself to fragrant roast beef.

  “Livvie, please,” Elouise sighed. “Wait for the staff to serve you.”

  Olivia laughed, reaching for a bowl of carrots. “Really, mother!” she exclaimed, shaking her head. “Does King Edward still reign in the country? You do realize that I live in a flat where I not only serve but also prepare my own meals, don’t you?”

  Missus Faraday looked deeply pained.

  The stranger abruptly speared his meat, causing an ear-wrenching screech as his fork scraped along the china. Chris winced. Olivia gave him a mild look, one eyebrow raised. The stranger ignored them both, his eyes on the lady of the household. “What’s all this, then?” he demanded, clearly annoyed. “This is your… daughter? I heard nothing of a family visit. You said that the girl was uninterested in the holdings, and yet, here she is for the Festival?”

  Elouise’s ice-chip eyes flashed. “She’s not,” she snapped. “Miss Faraday is a Deathsniffer, sent to poke about in our private business. It just so happens that Darrington sent my child to make the whole matter difficult for me. Rest assured, Olivia wouldn’t be here for our family traditions if she had any choice in the matter.” She held up a glass. A maid with pretty blonde curls appeared as if from nowhere to pour sparkling apple cider.

  “Everything good, ma’am?” the girl asked. She armed herself with a tremulous
smile, her eyes flickering from Olivia to Elouise and back.

  Elouise patted her forearm, expression softening to fondness. “Absolutely lovely, Buffy. Do tell the other girls that you’ve all done quite well.”

  The girl bobbed and nodded, turning to hurry out.

  “What,” Olivia sang, holding up her own empty glass. “No welcome for me, Buffy?”

  The servant stopped, halfway through a step, one foot still held in the air. Slowly, she turned. “I’m… sorry, Miss Olivia,” she hazarded. “You didn’t raise your glass, I….”

  “Oh, yes,” Olivia said, eyes dancing. “That’s why. I’m sure.”

  The girl looked to Missus Faraday, as if for permission.

  The matriarch fixed her with an encouraging smile. “Olivia is both family and guest, Buffy. You should treat her as you would anyone else at our table.”

  “Right. I—yes, of course, Missus.” The girl skittered forward in a rush of skirts and sloshing pitcher. She poured golden, bubbly cider into Olivia’s upraised glass, and then reached over Chris to fill his as well, while he leaned to one side to avoid being in her way as much as possible.

  “Thank you, Buffy,” Olivia sang as the girl made her escape back to the kitchen.

  When the door shut, Missus Faraday fixed her daughter with a baleful glare. “They’re good girls. You needn’t set them on their heels like that.”

  “I wouldn’t need to if you didn’t fill their ears with poison,” Olivia retorted, raising her glass. The cider within swirled. “You should pay attention to how they treat me when you’re not watching them like a hawk. Everyone likes me fine, Mother! They’re just afraid of you giving them hell for it!”

  Another young lady in servant’s livery appeared at Chris’s side and spooned portions out onto his plate. She kept her eyes down as she did so, shoulders hunched as if it would help her avoid the conversation or the attention of the women having it.

  Chris focused on the food, trying to block out the tense truce of silence that fell between the Faraday women. His plate filled up with steaming roast beef, potatoes, carrots and chutney, all topped with rich-smelling, dark brown gravy. He hadn’t seen such a hearty meal in an age.

  “Well,” the stranger pronounced, breaking the uncomfortable silence. “The least you could have done, Missus Faraday, was warn me of the situation. I find it quite inappropriate to continue discussing business under the circumstances.” He waved his fork about dramatically as he spoke, meat still on the end of it. Chris narrowed his eyes. Something about the man’s mannerisms… and maybe something else, as well… he seemed strangely familiar.

  Olivia made a humming noise at the back of her throat. “Business?” she asked all feigned innocence. “How interesting. What sort of business is that, Mother?”

  “Nothing,” the stranger snapped, “that I feel altogether comfortable talking about with you in attendance, Miss Faraday. The whole affair is rather tawdry.”

  Elouise laughed. It was a bitter little trill, and it sounded so very much like Olivia that for a moment, Chris thought it had come from her. “Oh no. You’re very much mistaken. We could finalize the sale right here and now, and Livvie wouldn’t speak a word of protest. Would she?”

  Olivia folded her lips. She laid her fork down. “Sale?” she asked. “What sale?”

  “Hardly any of your affair, dear,” Elouise said, turning her attention to her plate. “It’s Miller business, and you’re here as Deathsniffer Faraday, are you not?”

  Olivia speared a carrot and sneered. “Typical. I can’t believe that you accuse me of pettiness when you—”

  Elouise Faraday slammed her fork down so hard that all the cutlery and glassware on the table rattled. Her voice filled the room like a thunder overhead. “I accuse you of heartlessness. Which we both know that you are!”

  The room went very silent.

  Olivia slowly shrugged one shoulder, digging her fork into her potatoes. Gravy poured in rivulets into the hole she left behind. “In which case,” she said, too mildly, “I most assuredly don’t care at all about whatever this is.”

  “But of course you do.” Elouise sneered. “You can’t help but be curious, can’t you, dear? Please, don’t allow me to torture you.” She indicated the stranger, who frowned mightily, then smoothed his expression and tipped the brim of his old-fashioned top hat. “Dayton and I are in the midst of a negotiation. He wishes to purchase Miller, to expand his holdings.”

  The tension that settled over the table was thick enough to cut with a knife. Chris looked down at his plate and waited for the hammer to fall.

  “You’re selling Miller?” Olivia’s voice was very quiet.

  “I don’t see what choice I have. Really, Olivia, what did you think was going to happen? You refuse to—”

  “I’ve never directly refused, Mother. It’ll be years before it’s even an issue! I honestly can’t believe that you’d ever considered—have you not given a thought to what Father would have wanted, or what—just how long have these… negotiations been going on?”

  Elouise smiled thinly. “Not long after last Solstice.”

  Olivia sputtered.

  “Funny enough, I told myself that I would make you aware of the situation whenever I heard from you.”

  Olivia slammed two hands flat on the table. Her eyes flashed, and Chris didn’t think he’d ever seen her look quite so angry. “No. No, you absolutely don’t get to—no. I don’t visit because you don’t want to see my face. I don’t mirror because you don’t want to hear my voice. Hells, Mother, I don’t even write because you don’t even want to see my penmanship. How—how dare you sit there and somehow make me the villain for not reaching out. How dare you!”

  Chris swallowed hard. Rachel carefully sipped at her drink. Rosie’s eyes darted back and forth between the two Faraday women.

  Their guest—Dayton, as he’d been named—cleared his throat noisily. “This is hardly becoming,” he said tersely.

  Rosie raised her chin. Chris hurried to step in before she could make an embarrassment of herself with one of her tirades. “Ah, I—” he began.

  But his sister was already speaking. “This is a family dinner, Mister Spencer,” she said. “And I happen to know that you are quite without prior invitation. Surely there’s not so much room to stand on, in that case?”

  As he gaped, Chris recognized the pointed, arch tone in her voice.

  Pure Faraday.

  Mister Dayton wadded his napkin up in one fist. “I say,” he snivelled. “Missus Faraday, your ward’s behaviour is without merit!”

  “Did I say something untoward?” Rosie blinked innocently. Her blue eyes danced behind her big, fluttering eyelashes.

  The guest’s brows pulled down over his eyes and his mouth curled into a scowl. And there it was, in that stern, disapproving look. All at once, Chris recognized him. Or rather, recognized someone else in him. His heart did a backflip into his stomach, and his hands tightened on his silverware.

  “Mother Deorwynn,” he gasped. “You’re Fernand’s nephew.”

  Dayton Spencer, the estranged heir who’d snatched all of Fernand’s holdings out of Chris’s hands, turned judgemental eyes to him and scowled. “Do I know you?” he demanded.

  Chris was halfway out of his chair, fists balled before he even realized it. “You took what he’d promised away from us!” he exclaimed. He felt red heat rising over his vision, climbing up into his middle, flames licking at his insides. “It’s your fault all of this has happened, and now you’re sitting here, at this table, breaking bread with my—”

  “Christopher, goodness.”

  There was a hand on his shoulder. And despite the gentle recrimination in the voice, the hand attached to it quite forcibly pushed him back down into his seat. He fell, all the wind suddenly going out of him. Spencer was looking at him with fury, and Chris realized with a start that he’d been feeding his own rage into the man without even thinking about it, shoving it down his throat like he was trying to suf
focate him with it.

  Doctor Graham Cartwright’s voice echoed through the patches of his memory, set against the image of Missus Cartwright’s serene, smiling face. Blunt your own feelings. Sand off the sharp edges. Yes, good. There’s a good lad. Now… reel them in. Don’t stop feeling. Feeling is important. But you can’t help but rub all of that off on others. You need to pull your emotions up close to you like a bird tucking in his wings… yes. Yes, just like that. There, brilliant. Well done.

  Spencer’s expression softened. Only a little, but that was something.

  Chris slumped in his chair, suddenly exhausted. He recognized himself doing it passively, now, but Gods. Actually trying to take any control over his heartwriting made him feel like a pitcher of water someone had somehow poured over his own head, leaving him both wet and empty.

  “Well,” Olivia said. She planted both palms down on the table. “Would you believe that I’d actually entirely forgotten about this little situation?”

  “Who exactly are you?” Spencer demanded.

  Chris took some measure of rough joy from the confusion in his rival’s eyes. He jutted his chin forward. Olivia had all but given him permission. Fair enough—it was a matter of public record that Christopher Buckley, a descendant of Richard Lowry’s closest confidante, was a Deathsniffer’s bloody secretary.

  It had been a long time since that had chafed the way it did when he clenched his jaw and ground out: “Miss Faraday’s personal assistant. Christopher Buckley. I was your uncle’s—”

  But Spencer raised a hand and cut him off, curling his lip. “Bloody hell. I know who you are. What rotten happenstance. Well. Allow me to make this perfectly clear, Mister Buckley. I have great respect for the Buckley family and its role in history, but you and your sister had absolutely no claim on my family’s holdings. My father made me promise before he died, made me swear on his ruddy deathbed, that I would never let that blighted parasite control the Spencer lands!”

  Olivia’s hand on Chris’s shoulder couldn’t have held him down if she was a statue made of iron. He surged to his feet, dukes up, rage clouding his vision and wanting nothing—nothing—so much as to get Dayton Spencer upside the jaw. Fernand’s jaw. He couldn’t help but irrationally think: He doesn’t deserve to wear Fernand’s damned jaw! just before Rosemary’s voice snapped him back to his senses.